Rooks and Romanticide
by White Silver and Mercury
Summary: Two households, both alike in dignity-the responsibilities of noble blood. Bloodstained fate for two children with bloodstained hands, and they were helpless to change it. / Sebastian/Ciel. Victorianesque gun-slinging Shakespearean AU.
1. prelude

**rooks and romanticide.**

**Disclaimers: I do not own.**

**Rating/Warning: AU; T+ and M in specific scenes; graphic content such as violence, recreational substance use references, explicit scenes and mature themes. **

**A/N: I think this might be some of the last fanfiction I upload in a long, long while. Thanks Anne Rice. xD**

* * *

_They say miracles are past._

William Shakespeare.

* * *

_prelude._

* * *

They called it Lovers' Lane, and he thought that was a mess of something more evil than irony.

The concrete beneath his boots was usually full of grimy puddles, hiding the cracks and the gravel and the sharp juts between minuscule potholes, and the walls of the narrow alleyway were no better—dank and gritty, dripping with moisture and cracked from duct-tape bandaged water pipe to boarded-over window.

Ciel found his parents there, shot—execution style—murdered and dumped on the uneven concrete where the other dead were left until the undertaker ventured along with his primeval cart and hoisted them away. Sometimes the water running down the alley was dark with fresh blood, and some stains in the concrete never went away. Corpses, carcasses, the aftermath of turmoil and civil arguments in a world where Her Frail Little Majesty could not hold the peace.

They'd been dumped over the tin shingles of the alleyway, strewn bloodied and cocked at frightening angles onto the concrete and left there for the undertaker. He'd already stumbled upon Sebastian, his big dog, the one that kept him warm at night, that barked at all the nightmares and monsters hiding in the shadows, but Ciel found him lying dead and cold in the parlor of their home, puppy-dog eyes never to roll around in greeting again. He'd cried out in grief then, but when the toe of his boot nudged into the lifeless side of his father, he couldn't really do much but stare. And the rain drizzled, which he found incredibly cliché even in its normalcy, and he stepped over his dad's broken neck and petted the matted blonde hair out of his mother's blank eyes, dug in his pockets for coins to close them with. He came up empty-handed. He hadn't expected to find anything, anyway, because the first rule was that you didn't carry money on your person unless you were planning to spend it immediately, so he'd tromped through the dirty puddles and through the shadows of Lovers' Lane, slipped around the corner and ducked out of the cursed alley to meander his way home, except that was when They found him and it was another three months until he'd made it back to his warm bed because—

"Nostalgia, young one?"

Ciel started briefly, a meager flutter of the lashes and twitch of the pale skin between his brows, but he repressed the rest of his surprise. The revolvers against his tailbone were cold through his shirt as he shifted, glancing over at the undertaker. He slouched over the side of his rickety little cart, straight from the streets of Bengal or Beijing, threading his knuckles together with long black nails curving off pallid fingers. Ciel shuddered involuntarily, closed his eyes and only opened them when he'd turned his face away, because he refused to watch the man hoist the body of a young woman into the bed of his cart. Limp, beautiful, _dead_.

"Not at all," he murmured, propping his hands on his hips and peeking back at the undertaker as soon as the sickening _thud_ of the girl's body hitting the bottom of the cart had settled. The undertaker smiled at him, hair stringy in his eyes and hood pulled down low across the bridge of his nose.

"Not at all," the undertaker echoed, and Ciel's frown grew pinched at the sharp grating of the man's voice against his ears. The undertaker was a real freak, if any. Strange and estranging. "Then what is someone of your name doing wandering Lovers' Lane?"

_Someone of your name_— Ciel brushed past the undertaker, fingers trailing on the grimy wall as he made his way towards the other end of the alleyway. Lashes lowered on eyes full of importance and chin held high, water and grit squished beneath his shoes. "Word is that there were bodies found—"

Long fingers curled around his arm and tugged him backwards, and before the beads of the undertaker's rosary chain had stopped chattering against one another, the rustle of clothing and the slosh of a puddle, and the _click_ of a hammer cocking bounced off the opposite wall—and their movement ground to a standstill with the undertaker smiling his crazed smile and Ciel regarding him from behind the barrel of a revolver engraved with a crest and the model name _Rapier-A227_.

"I am the one you should come to with inquiry about _bodies_," the undertaker chortled, and the last word drew out beneath his breath. Ciel's nose wrinkled; the man smelled like dog food, dirt, and death.

He cleared his throat and dismissed the undertaker's interruption, sniffed daintily and resumed. "—that there were bodies found at the end of Lovers' Lane, below the wall. Hanging." Ciel pulled free from the undertaker's fingers, but the gun didn't lower until he'd shuffled back a number of steps. "Maybe a murder, maybe a double suicide, maybe some kind of cult activity, or a petty gang's plot." He slid his hand around his side, returning the revolver to its holster at the small of his back. "Go about your business, undertaker. As a Phantomhive, this is _my_ job."

The undertaker chuckled to himself, drumming his fingers on the side of his shameful cart. "Hold each and every soul dear," he simpered. "Because you hold great power, you gradually fail to understand the importance of things that cannot be recovered."

Ciel turned his back, lifting a hand. "Maybe, after I investigate, you can have the bodies," he called, sloshing through another puddle. His nose wrinkled; it reeked. "Especially if it's interesting," he added, fingertips dusting the corner of the alley. He paused before turning out of Lovers' Lane, smiling down the narrow way at the undertaker. "After all, I wouldn't want a goddamn Michaelis getting a look at it, now would I?"

The undertaker giggled to himself and grabbed his cart by the handles. The boy at the end of the alley disappeared around the corner, and the front wheels hit a little bump. A pasty white arm jostled and tumbled over the edge of the cart, hand dangling near the man's dark robes, strands of long, golden hair like satin ribbons between the gray fingers.

"Oopsie," the undertaker cooed, and pushed the girl further into the cart to make sure she wouldn't fall out, and the sound of his slightly off-key hums filled Lovers' Lane as he made his way out.

* * *

_end of prologue. the curtain rises on Act I on September 24._


	2. act I: scenes I, II, and III

**rooks and romanticide.**

**Disclaimers: I do not own.**

**Rating/Warning: AU; T+ and M in specific scenes; graphic content such as violence, recreational substance use references, explicit scenes and mature themes.**

* * *

_act I: raw._

_scenes i, ii, and iii._

* * *

_scene I_.

* * *

His breath was visible on the air, hanging there like a little cloud. Above the crooked rooftops of the buildings, abandoned laundry lines and rusty pipes, haphazard windows with dirty panes and chipped bricks falling to puddles in the cement, the sky was cold and gray. A pasty blanket of murky clouds filtering in daylight as they milled about the sun. Gravel and glass crunched beneath his foot, and Sebastian lifted his toe, frowning down at the mess on the ground. And children played outside in this place—what a nightmare.

"And Sebastian—"

There was a shuffle of gravel and other daily debris as the rest of them paused, and Sebastian wilted—felt their eyes, knew that even if the others would let it go if he didn't reply, Grell would not, and Grell was nuisance enough without even trying, so why agitate him? Sebastian turned slightly, meeting their stares over his shoulder. Yes, all clustered behind him—William, Grell, the Beast; the blond one and the one with glasses—staring over fur collars and militia jackets, and Grell pulled his glasses down, letting them dangle over the front of his coat on their chain as he dug around in his pockets for his mask.

"You're not gonna be all moody, right?" he demanded, pulling on the lavish mask. The Beast snorted, shifted her weight to the other foot.

"He's always moody," she reminded. "Brooding about something or another. One pathetic crush here, another one there—and something or another about how daddy's never proud of him—"

Sebastian cut her a bitter glance, holding a hand out for Grell to give him his mask, too. He took it, brushing past the Beast roughly. "Forgive me, I forgot that succubae like you have never experienced love, in that dark and stinking pit you like to pretend is a heart—"

The Beast uttered a harsh scoff, kicked up a leg and reached into the boot she kept her pistol sword hidden in, one of her most prized possessions. Sebastian ignored the threat, taking his first look at the mask Grell had designed for him. Black silk, feathers, chains and silver skulls.

"You're one to mock me, jackass!" the Beast cried at his turned back. "And you claim your heart is any less empty than mine? You could never understand love, sitting high and mighty below your father, hiding in his shadow. You only know _obsession_—all the faces you've ever fawned over, just filthy, pathetic _obsession_—Rosalie, Charysse, Victoria. You're twisted, if you ever thought that sick obsession was something like love! The day I lay down and accept an insult such as that from _you_, you spoiled brat, will be a cold day in hell. Oh, and if you ever think that just because you were trained by the other members of BLACK, it makes you better than us, then I _pity_ you, you selfish mongrel. I _pity_ you. I pity _your father_ for ever thinking you'd make a good leader for BLACK, because all you ever proved yourself of is never speaking up and simply running off to the library to hide in a book once orders were complete. Hah! Oh, and if I may _remind_ you—Rosalie? Charysse and Victoria? They're all _dead_."

Sebastian spun with a crunch of gravel and chipped concrete beneath his heel, focusing all his hatred at her in his glare. "The Joker's just as dead," he iced out, calmly. To the side, the one with glasses smiled slightly, glanced down at the blond one next to him, who lingered at his arm with dark eyes. The Beast uttered a growl, lurching forward with blade ready—but it was all intimidation, because as Grell held her back with one shoulder and a rare look of seriousness on his face, she didn't try to break free, but instead kept her burning gaze on Sebastian a moment longer, until William pulled her away and motioned for her to put her weapon back.

"That's enough," Grell demanded. "Come _on_, you guys. This is supposed to be fun. There'll be lots of delicious things to eat, and good liquor, and at least a few good-looking guests. It'll be _fun_! This isn't an assignment, it's _fun_! So let's go and you can get your mind off of stupid things like... Like work, and family, and other stupid things like that." He motioned towards the mouth of the alley, between two buildings and under a flashing sign that proclaimed _Fierce and Fearless Ladies at Foxxy's_, where tenements became broken storefronts and market stands and random holes in the wall. Outside the alley, as night was falling, innocent civilians were retreating as the more shady of people emerged—a new catalog of virtues and vice, opening up the commotion and mishaps of the nightlife in the neglected corners of the city, ladybirds, cash carriers, toolers and palmers and the flashy mobsmen creeping out, a haven for the likes of them on the cobbled streets. Grell dug in his jacket again, pulling out and handing around the rest of the masks. Black silk, silver chains. William scoffed at how Grell had made them unique for each person—the black mesh on the Beast's, for example, or the plastic spiders on the blond one's.

"It might be too obvious," William insisted below his breath, frowning thinly. Behind him, with the one with the glasses, the blond boy pranced about in his mask, peeking into dirty windows and trying to scare anyone who might be around.

Sebastian took a deep breath, tried to ignore the rage bubbling in his chest. He tucked his mask into his jacket, patted William on the shoulder in reassurance and sought out Grell's eyes behind the black velvet and fur that framed them. "It'll be fun," he murmured. Grell cried out in joy, taking him by the shoulders and shaking gently. Buckles and holsters echoed the motion.

"That's the spirit!" he called, hooking an arm around Sebastian's waist and glancing around the group. At his eyes, the blond one snapped to attention and saluted, grinning; the one with glasses placed a hand on his head and led him back into their midst. William ran a few hands along his sides, his back, checking and rechecking the access of his weapons. The Beast glanced up at Sebastian from where she'd crouched against the wall of the alley.

"Hey," she mumbled, voice low and sulky, looking away with a petulant frown like a stubborn child afraid to admit they were wrong, and Sebastian knew it was because she was well aware of the way she'd just spoken to the Michaelis heir and how dumb of a choice it had been. She tucked a few loose strands of dark ringlets behind her ear, meeting his eyes again. "We're going to eat, drink, and be merry, alright? And give those filthy Phantomhives a proper scare. Don't you agree, _the Rook_?"

Sebastian watched her for a moment, thinking about it all. _The Rook._ The Beast, the Lion, the Spider, the Snake, the Wolf. All of them and their guns—BLACK. He sighed, watching his breath again. And then he offered a thin smile, because as the leader, he had to get over subordinates' attitudes in a responsible way. "That's the plan," he agreed, shifting to the end of the alley and peeking round the corner, above the dirty rooftops, to the gated manor on the hill that was their destination.

"But I think, first..." Sebastian turned again, leaning into the wall of the alley. Just off the corner of it, a ladybird had emerged in front of _Foxxy's Ladies_, swaying her hips and waving at possible patrons with her sable scarf. Sebastian sighed again, a small frown lingering at the edge of his lips, listening to the racket striking up out on the street as night descended. "I think," he said again, crossing his arms and returning his attention to the matters at hand, "we need to get into some more..._fitting_ clothes for such an occasion, hnm?"

"Party!" the blond one cried, hopping again. The one with glasses tried to reach him, but he slithered past Grell and William and threw his hands in the air, joining Sebastian at the mouth of the alley. "I _love_ dress-up! Hey, I want something purple, with a fur collar, and cute little buttons on the trousers—"

Sebastian smiled.

* * *

_scene II_.

* * *

She hummed, and it echoed in the corners of the hall. Tapping her toe on the polished floor where her ankles crossed, running her fingertips to and fro on the balcony railing—innocuous. But it was driving him mad.

"Ciel—" she murmured, and even past the footsteps of busy servants and the echo of voices down in the vestibule below, he heard the nervousness in the back of her voice, the rustle of velvet and lace as she shifted, the soft lilt to her words as she tried her best to sound cool and collected and proper. Ciel frowned at her, propping his elbow on the railing, his chin in his hand.

"How is business?" Elizabeth asked, folding her hands gracefully on the railing and trying to assume a rigid, serious tone.

"As uneventful as always," Ciel murmured, peering out into the vestibule as hired hands hurried to finish setting up tables and the footman adjusted his clothes at the door. Elizabeth fidgeted a moment, heels tapping on the floor again. Ciel dragged a thumbnail on the railing, adding, "But that isn't exactly something a lady should be worrying herself over."

"Well," she frowned, soft and determined, cupid-bow lips pinching with honest concern, "how was your time today, scouting? I heard there was a hanging at Lovers' Lane. ...Why do they call it Lovers' Lane? Oh, you know what, never mind that. What happened, though? Was it a murder? Was the Michaelis family involved?"

Ciel couldn't help but smile, even bitterly, as he closed his eyes and searched for the proper patience. Elizabeth was a Middleford; she hadn't grown up in their world of parties and bloodshed and civil hide-and-go-seek. She hadn't seen the way bodies littered the alleyways, or the cobblestones, or hung with cockeyed heads from fraying rope as their wounds began to rot already. She tried to act like she was comfortable with it, like she knew what was going on, but she was still just an innocent girl. A by-stander, almost. And Madame Red didn't seem to remember that even as she encouraged her stay there, foolishly—

"We don't think it was the Michaelis family, directly." Ciel shifted to the other foot, glancing at Elizabeth through his lashes. She licked her lips, trying to maintain her solemnity, looking angelic in all the folds and layers of her gown. "But we think it was a gang of Michaelis supporters. They're the worst, really. Not blood-related, but blind dogs, so driven by distorted passion they become animals, feral and violent and irrational."

"Oh, so you crossed out cult activity, then?"

Both Elizabeth and Ciel turned sharply, leveling equally disgruntled stares on the source of the voice. With a red scowl and a flutter of lace fans, Madame Red met them from across the upper hallway; behind her, amongst the curtains and portraits on the far wall, her servants waited tentatively, as if unsure whether to intrude or not even in the rush before the ball. Ciel frowned sharply, glancing at Elizabeth quickly and hoping not to see a question biding its time there, then looked back to Madame Red.

"Yes, I did," he assured. "And I would appreciate it if you stopped butting into my business. I was just telling Miss Elizabeth here that it's not really something a lady should worry herself over—"

Madame Red clucked her tongue, finished the gesture with a roll of her eyes and a glance at Ciel from below her lashes. "I'm not butting into your business. I thought I forgot something in your office, so I simply went in to look for it and your papers were still lying out on your desk, and I _happened_ to see the ones regarding that investigation."

"You're my aunt, not my business partner, and I'm asking you as the head of the family to stop forcing yourself into my duties," Ciel hissed, and then remembered that Elizabeth was still standing there. Huffing an impatient breath, he softened into a dark pout and added, "But I have it under control, so don't stress yourself with it."

Madame Red peered at him a moment, and her eyes moved with her thoughts—perhaps evaluating him, evaluating the situation, perhaps remembering things—and his skin crawled beneath the weight of whatever stare he was receiving, discomfited. He shifted to the other foot, glancing back out over the balcony. And then:

"I swear to God, my nephew has got to be the most heartless creature I've ever met." Madame Red turned her nose up, black lace and cameo bouncing in the nape of her neck; her voice filled their corner of the upper hallway, sultry after years of business and cigarettes. "And I've met quite a many heartless and foul men in my lifetime, Miss Elizabeth, you just take my word on that. But really, he's too dense to even realize, isn't he? He's got such a gorgeous young woman staying here in his home until New Year's, and he can't even crawl up and out from under his massive _ego_ long enough to relax and have fun and appreciate her for what she is—a smart and capable young lady, worthy of his respect. Really, I ought to throttle you, Ciel. I really should."

Ciel blinked, mouth falling open. He wanted to say, _Don't downplay this into something about Elizabeth, because it's not! _but he couldn't find the ability to talk for a moment. "Coming from a woman in pants!" he sputtered instead, and turned around to scowl down upon the vestibule once more, not so much embarrassed as frustrated that she had to create a scene in front of Elizabeth instead of just letting it go. Madame Red's raucous laugh filled the upper hall, unfazed, and she hugged Elizabeth to her side again as she whipped open her fan; it waved between she and her nephew, stirring up the air and spreading the scents of three different perfumes and colognes. She shifted her weight to the other foot, cocked out a hip as if showing off her trousers. Her belt clicked against the end of the red corset she wore above it, but there was nothing Ciel could do about her rebellion against femininity or her ability to somehow wriggle her way into every aspect of his life.

"Really, though," she said, "I wish you'd be more appreciative of this arrangement, nephew of mine. I don't think any other family would allow their daughter to stay in a man's quarters unless they were _already_ engaged. You're lucky, do you know that? Don't take it for granted, and don't abuse it with your sour moods."

"I'm not sour," Ciel insisted below his breath, propping his chin in his hands and frowning further down at the people milling in the vestibule. Guests were beginning to arrive, all dolled up and flashing masks. And there, that was an interesting one—black, all sleek black, with feathers and a sharp nose. Like a bird. The guest wearing it wasn't in much more than a simple black suit, but his mask made up for it. Behind him, Madame Red cooed over Elizabeth for a moment, until Elizabeth giggled shyly in turn, and then she reached over and tucked a few loose strands of hair behind Ciel's ear, leaning in to assuage, breath hot on his ear and smelling of mint:

"My nephew, seek happy days to happy nights. You never know when they might come to an end."

Ciel closed his eyes, mouth bitten into a thin line; the words brought forth a rotten knot in his stomach, one of impatience and one of subdued thoughts, and he gripped the balcony railing as he tried to maintain control of it all, especially in front of Elizabeth. Elizabeth moved closer towards him, and when he turned to find his aunt's eyes, she'd already moved back across the hall to her servants, who had begun primping her many buckles and laces and folds.

He reached behind, pulling his mask from under his bolero jacket. Glanced at Elizabeth, who'd already donned hers—soft pink and white, deep reds, big blue eyes peeking out and her skirt bouncing at her knees. He sighed, offered her a thin smile and slipped his on, trying to keep his smile level as he adjusted the mask on his nose.

"Should we go greet guests?" he asked, offering an arm to Elizabeth. She looked startled at first, then smiled in turn and nodded curtly, hooking an elbow on his.

* * *

_scene III._

* * *

Warmth and luxury, and the chandelier overhead spitting off light into the corners of the room, blazing from every window and lighting up the night outside. Colors swirled, waxed and waned like a dream world, ebbing and flowing beneath a buzz of sounds—music, voices, the rustle of carefully calculated costumes as people danced. Fruits and jellies, and grey-grained caviar of the finest sort among platters of high quality hors d'oeuvres and sweets; huge blocks of ice, glasses of wine and champagne in cautiously constructed towers to pluck from, and harder liquor for those who coughed up enough money. Velvet drapes with golden chains and tassels, marble floors and walls in the vestibule ornate with gilded paneling; broad windows opening to little balconies and patios, the lavish staircase stretching down into the vestibule and leading up to more hallways to dance through, important doors closed and locked, paintings and granite sculptures smiling down at guests. Gold and lapis lazuli, plumes and scented petals, flowers and palms ornamenting the walls between painted ceilings and scarlet floors—and those who belonged to the respective court wore the crest as a silver brooch over their heart, and thus was a masquerade ball thrown by the Phantomhive family.

He'd made his welcome speech to a hall full of vivacious supporters, danced thrice with Elizabeth and sipped idly at a glass of wine as he suffered through attempted conversations left and right while wary gazes avoided making contact with his right eye. He'd sent Elizabeth off to mingle with other young ladies jealous of her high standing once the Valse des Fleurs started up, and the moment she left his side, Ciel decided he was done socializing for the night. It was all just overwhelming now, the colors and voices and racket like sensory overload. He just wanted to finish this up and retreat to his room, fall into bed and sleep. But even that would not be easy, because the moment his head hit the pillow, his mind would probably refuse sleep and consume him with business concerns and vital items of contemplation—

There, shifting through the crowd, subtle, but not quite enough—an obvious glance in his direction from behind the black mask he'd noticed earlier. Ciel met the man's eyes and held them for a moment, before the man disappeared amidst milling bodies and was lost again in the sea of faces.

"Young master—"

Ciel glanced to the side, meeting Tanaka in his bow. Servants' uniform clean and crisp, Phantomhive crest flashing in the light, Tanaka stepped closer and stooped down to speak into Ciel's ear. "Those on guard tonight have sent me with an update of security. They fear there might be a group in suspicion—of what, it is not clear yet. They'll have me promise you they're going to keep a close watch on the suspicious persons, and will send periodic updates should anything urgent or significant arise."

Ciel peered at him from behind his mask for a moment, hands propped on his hips. He sighed wearily, frowning. "There's _always_ a group in suspicion, no matter what the hell's going on. That's just the way it is. Just tell them 'very well, then, but don't slack on the rest of security for some simple delinquency'. Thank you, Tanaka."

He left Tanaka as he bowed a second time and followed the wall to the other side of the vestibule, where the patio doors stood opened upon the back courtyard. The night air beckoned him, refreshing and cool, and he pulled his mask off as he stepped out onto the cobblestones. Closed his eyes, took a deep breath. It was much better out here, under the moon and amongst the lights strung up on the balconies and eaves of the manor, netted through the trees and bushes. People out here were not really dancing, but just talking, lingering, getting fresh air and sipping their drinks, and Ciel didn't mind that. The overwhelming bustle, the socializing—that was inside. Outside, nobody would bother him—

There, again. The black mask with the feathers and the chains, the sharp nose and little skulls at the temple. Before he really comprehended it, Ciel dipped into the thin crowd outside, skirting around bodies. Glanced over someone's shoulder and met the eyes behind the black mask, and, startled they'd been looking back, looked away immediately as he continued on his way to the other side of the patio as if that was his intention in the first place. There was a heat on the back of his neck, obvious and heavy, and he glanced over his shoulder from where he'd paused at the line of bushes.

Yes, once more. The man in the black mask met his eyes briefly from where he'd been staring, and disappeared into the crowd again. A smile plucked at the corners of Ciel's mouth, lashes lowering. So the fellow wanted to play that game, did he?

He brushed past a woman in purple silk, slipped between she and a man in a gray suit, and his smile broadened as he used his size as an advantage—slithering through the crowd beneath the shoulders of others, scanning faces and glancing to and fro, and— Yes, the black mask. This close, he saw just how young the man was. Barely a man at all. And then he was gone again, and Ciel came to a stumbling halt as a woman who smelled a little too strongly of wine touched his arm and thanked him for the invite. Over her shoulder was the sprawling shadow of the manor, above it the star-studded sky, and Ciel could see his breath as he told her that it was his pleasure to have her there and looking so fine, and if she'd like, there were more refreshments along the edge of the patio.

"Pardon me," he murmured, and escaped by turning past one of the hired hands with a silver tray of Turkish delights—and as he side-stepped back to back with the waiter, Ciel looked up and met the eyes of the young man in the black mask. He hovered just a few inches away, in similar position with a burly man behind him, and beneath the chained bottom of his mask, his mouth was upturned in a most curious smile.

"It is my honor, Earl Phantomhive," he whispered, and it was just loud enough for Ciel to hear. Ciel lifted his shoulders, a gentle smirk tugging at his mouth as he waited for the guest to bow—but he didn't, and Ciel's smile faltered in distaste.

"It is an honor more than you'll ever know in your lifetime," he retorted, and with a dainty sniff, he dipped back into the crowd.

He hadn't made it far, the calm crowd out on the cobblestones starting little pockets of dancing now in turn, when the young man in the mask slipped into his peripheral again. A lady to his left gasped, then giggled shyly, and before Ciel could take another step, the man in the black mask waltzed past him with the woman in his arms—found his eyes and smiled brightly and murmured as he circled by, "Oh, I think I understand the importance of this moment in my life."

"What—?" Piqued, but harmlessly, Ciel followed, brushing past elbows and waiters and ignoring the perplexed glances sent after him. The young woman taken as dancing hostage glanced from silver-brooched Earl to the man in the black mask, and as a waiter came between them, the young masked man twirled her out of his arms and released her into the crowd again, offering a slight bow as Ciel came to a halt before him. And it was something of reprieve, Ciel supposed, the man's boldness to border mockery so dangerously, and he didn't notice his own smile as the young man peeked up at him through the mask, instead clasping his hands behind his back and regarding him through his lashes.

"The import in meeting me face-to-face?" Ciel inquired, and as another waiter passed, he followed him around at the coattails until he stood behind the bowing guest.

"Why...yes," the man in the black mask answered honestly as he stood, casting him a glance over his shoulder. Ciel's gaze flickered along him, evaluating it all—the modest black suit with the white flowers in the pocket, the chain of a pocket watch and a loose linen shirt with the top few buttons unfastened. Long neck dipping down into the open collar, a smooth jaw line with high cheekbones and thin, pale lips, framed by loose strands of dark, dark hair, fashionably long, mask perched on a perfectly shaped nose. Almost effeminate, but handsome in his prettiness. He looked like a young man who knew just how to squeak by in the world without a lot of effort, the kind of person Ciel would see during scouting and look at with a sniff of distrust.

"Were you wanting a dance, then?" Ciel smirked, stepping back towards the milling bodies in threat, because this was not a scouting session, and it was an exciting game. "Let me guess, your favorite author is Oscar Wilde."

The man in the black mask laughed, and Ciel took the opportunity to move back into the crowd. After a moment, he felt the radiance on his face, and immediately chastised himself for showing a complete stranger such a candid face already. He passed a waiter—grabbed a glass of champagne and threw it back in a hasty sip. And as his vision leveled again, of course, there he was—as quick and efficient as a ghost. Smiling at him from behind the black mask as he danced by with yet another young girl. Ciel snorted, not to be mocked in such a way. He turned, handing his champagne flute to a man next to him and taking the hand of the woman at his side. The man sputtered at first, angry, but seemed to get over it after recognizing who had stolen his date.

Ciel led the lady with far less than a patient step, panning the faces around them and finally catching sight of the feathered mask and curious smile once again over the woman's bare shoulder, near the bushes. He turned, drifting closer to the young man's side until their elbows brushed.

"Is playing this game really more entertaining than the offered festivities?" Ciel husked, and the nighttime air fell to voices and commotion as the music flowing out from the vestibule came to an end and the dancing stopped until the next piece was struck up. The woman he'd stolen away for a dance smiled and gave a warm glance before moving off to find her date again, and the young man in the black mask winked at the blushing lady beside him before motioning her off elsewhere. She gasped, flushed a darker red, and hurried off towards a group of girls waiting on the other side of the patio with faces just as pink.

Ciel crossed his arms, regarding the young man with a cold eye. The man peered back, still smiling his indecipherable and charming smile.

"Forgive me," he murmured below the buzz of the crowd. "I'm just honored to have the Earl of Phantomhive playing the game along with me."

Ciel's eyes widened and he looked away with a little huff, stunned, frowning curtly before returning the glance. "Don't flatter yourself," he scoffed.

"You aren't wearing your mask," the young man observed, tapping the corner of his own for example. Ciel's frown deepened and he turned away, reaching beneath his bolero jacket for the mask to replace. Briefly, he considered having the young man kicked out for disrespect or something, but decided that the ball would be unbearable again if he did that, and just as his eyes were shifting back to meet those behind a black feathered mask, gunshots ripped through the air and everything but instinct came screeching to a halt.

Footsteps scraping on the cobblestones, Ciel dodged beneath the patio roof, pressing into the shadows of a stone pillar and flipping up the back of his bolero. He dropped his mask as he drew his gun, cocking the hammer out of habit. Guests were scattering; he watched from around the edge of the pillar as they ran for cover beneath the roof of the patio, some flocking in his direction and others panicking on the cobblestones. The waiters slammed the doors to the vestibule shut and the braver of the guests inside swarmed the glass, frantic to know what was going on. And _where the hell was security_? Maylene, Bard, Finnian—those damned servants were hardly good at anything else, _where were they_?

More bullets flew, this time shattering glasses of champagne that had been abandoned, tearing through bushes and trees, spraying water and marring the stone of the fountain, popping the fronts of lanterns strung along the courtyard. And good, it sounded like all the attackers were outside, probably up on the balconies on this side of the house. Ciel inched outwards a bit, craning out of the shadows to see the closest terrace.

There, overhead, in a black mask—a blond boy aiming what looked like a semi-automatic pistol. Ciel shot twice in his direction, then ducked back into the shadows as bullets rained down on the cobbles in response, chipping the pillar he hid behind and scarring the stone walkway. Guests cried out, incoherent and frightened. It sounded like there had been more than one person aiming at him after he'd shot, so it was a group attack. And a pathetic one, at that, Ciel decided. This was clearly not an ambush with intentions of bloodshed; the attackers wouldn't be relying on handguns, reckless aim and disorderly fire if they were trying to hurt someone.

He didn't quite register the screams of everyone around him beyond the sharp adrenaline of the moment as he shoved through them all, packed against the side of the manor like a bunch of animals. He ran along the patio, beneath the roof, tracing the edge of the courtyard until he could see the balcony where the blond boy had been. But the blond boy was gone, and as Ciel skidded around the last corner of the patio, he found Maylene, already aiming for the redhead on the roof who had taken the blond boy's place.

"Fuck," was all he whispered, crouching down behind her with a hand on her shoulder to keep his balance, and Maylene pulled the trigger. He braced for the kick, watching over her shoulder. The redhead danced around a few shots, then returned fire with wild abandon, hollering something inaudible above the panic of the guests. Bullets shredded through the bushes in the courtyard, ricocheted off the iron-wrought garden chairs and tables on the cobblestones. Ciel moved behind the next pillar, scanning the throngs of people; Tanaka was moving everyone inside through the northwest servants' entry.

Lead scattered from somewhere else above the courtyard, hit the pillar a few feet above his head. He ducked into the shadows as shards of granite tumbled down in clouds of dust, pressed against the other side of the pillar and just listened to the fight for a moment or two—the shooting from the roof was not constant now, just defiant reactions to the shots fired from down below. Overhead, Ciel heard the sound of a shout, a few dull thuds and a clatter—sounded like Bard and Finny had split up from Maylene and hurried upstairs to surprise the attackers there. A small pepperbox rifle fell down from the balcony above, and Ciel made a mental note to snag if afterwards. With it, he could easily trace the culprits by its model and distributor.

There was the sound of Maylene throwing an empty gun down in exchange for her second, and then footsteps, crunching shattered granite. Ciel stiffened, held his breath and wondered if they'd sent someone down below or if Maylene was moving closer. The steps stopped on the opposite side of the pillar, and Ciel sank down into a crouch, searching for a shadow to judge by. But whatever shadow might have been cast slanted in and joined that of the patio roof—and Maylene was over there somewhere, after all—

"Don't worry," came a whisper from the other side of the pillar—and Ciel recognized the voice, pressing into the granite again, staring up at the other side of the house and watching for movement on the roof and balconies; scowling, heart pumping, he readjusted his clammy grip on his revolver and hissed:

"You really decided to stay out here when all the guests were ushered in? I have no intention of accepting responsibility for your death."

The young man with the black mask chuckled, and Ciel heard the click of a barrel from the other side of the pillar. "I have no intention of dying tonight," the man assured, and Ciel uttered a gentle scoff.

"Then do you mind repaying your host with, hopefully, good aim?" he asked, and the young man on the other side of the pillar laughed again, softly, before joining in Maylene's fire at the roof on the other side of the courtyard, where the red-haired culprit had ventured out again. Ciel jumped, edging further into the shadows. There was a brief spray of bullets between those on the ground and the last of those on the upper eaves of the manor, until finally, the redheaded one yelled something, something inaudible where Ciel crouched beneath the patio roof, and as quickly as it had begun, the shooting stopped.

The gunfight itself lasted maybe only forty seconds, but it was another long minute or two before Ciel stood again, legs cramping and hands quivering like they always did at the end of such events. He edged along the shadowed side of the pillar, paused and tried to regain a bit of composure. He swallowed, took a few slow breaths; he wasn't sure if he was more shaken up, or more angry at the situation, and for a moment, breathing was difficult and he panicked at the possible advent of an asthma attack.

"Maylene," he called, quietly. He heard the _clatta-clack_ of her gun as she lowered it; he glanced over, meeting her eyes. And through his peripheral, he noticed that the young man in the black mask was gone. "Meet the rest of security upstairs and search the house. If you find anyone, hold them in the kitchen. Obviously, they didn't aim to kill, just to crash the ball. Probably some petty gang or something."

She nodded curtly and took off towards the servants' entry, glasses in her back pocket. Ciel moved out from under the shadows, kicking some chipped granite and stone as he walked into the middle of the courtyard. The pepperbox rifle was gone. An eerie silence had fallen, the terror of the guests a muted roar from inside the vestibule. Bushes rustled as a lone waiter climbed from his hiding spot among them. Ciel slid his gun back into its holster and surveyed the damage. The courtyard was a mess of broken dishes, tattered foliage, holes in the cobblestone, dropped food and drinks. His fingers twitched into fists and he kicked a shard of fine china, watched it shatter into a million more pieces a few feet away.

"Those damn Michaelis _bastards_!" he howled, kicking a few more pieces of broken dishes, and he felt kind of like a little boy throwing a fit, but there was no one there to hear him except for a few scattered servants and Tanaka, moving into the courtyard. Gritting his teeth, Ciel propped one hand on his hip, cradled his temple in the other. "Tanaka," he mumbled. "Were there any injuries?"

"Just one, sir," Tanaka returned. "A young lady was grazed on the shoulder. She collapsed from fright soon after, I'm afraid. As it stands, that's the only injury."

"Lovely," Ciel whispered, dropping both hands and taking a deep breath. "At least there's no need to fill out another civilian casualty report for the queen—just mass hysteria left for me to deal with. And, I suppose, this mess out here to clean up. I've sent security in to search the house for the attackers, but I have a strong feeling they've retreated now that they've given everyone a good scare. So, just..." Ciel sighed, brow knotting above a tight scowl. He kicked a fork, watched it skitter forward. "Just start cleaning up out here, all of you. I'll go calm the crowd."

"Yes, my lord," Tanaka murmured, leaning into a bow.

"_Damn_ those Michaelis _dogs _and _all_ their supporters—" Ciel spat, stepping over a lawn chair someone had knocked down in their panic. He left Tanaka and the other servants to begin cleaning, and by the time he slipped back inside to a sobbing Elizabeth and a fuming Madame Red, he had a splitting headache to go with the subsequent tremble of such a demanding affair. And quite a few guests to placate.

_Damn_ those Michaelis _dogs_.

* * *

_I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity._

Edgar Allan Poe.

* * *

_Act I resumes October 1. _


	3. act I: scenes IV and V

**rooks and romanticide.**

**Disclaimers: I do not own.**

**Rating/Warning: AU; T+ and M in specific scenes; graphic content such as violence, recreational substance use references, explicit scenes and mature themes.**

**A/N: Man, I suck. I have no excuse for being late. I apologize. **

* * *

_act I: raw._

_scenes iv and v._

* * *

_scene IV._

* * *

Sebastian thought of everything he'd heard about the Earl of Phantomhive, and the cool night air felt good on his flushed skin. Maybe it was the last of the energy buzzing in his nerves from the gunfight, a rusty adrenaline he hadn't felt so freshly in a long time. Or maybe the alcohol from the abandoned drink he'd snatched before hopping the outer wall of the manor had already replaced that tremble, tingling in his system as it spread through his blood and relaxed the muscles still jumpy with instinct. Or maybe it was the rush of meeting eyes with those of the night's host so many times, and the residual warmth that had left in his chest.

There were a few things commonly known about the Earl of Phantomhive, the first few being that of his general peculiarity. It wasn't exactly every other generation one of their households was run by a child of thirteen, let alone one as ruthless and methodical as the one in question. Then there was the fact that one of his eyes was a different color, lacking normal pigmentation from birth. That had been one of the favorite topics a few years ago, back when he'd just been _the heir_ and not _the Earl_. Sebastian had seen it for himself, sitting above Lovers' Lane one unfortunate, sludgy afternoon. And lastly, there was the matter of the Earl's disappearance two years back, when his parents had been murdered—and the matter of his random return. Which, although Sebastian knew the circumstances of his kidnapping, those of his homecoming were still unexplained. The rest of Kelvin's boys had just been transferred—

Sebastian peered into the bottom of his glass, wondering if there was even a sip left. He thought about the Earl and the way the lights had danced in those mismatching eyes, and how, even though there had been no festive mask on his face, his face itself had still seemed to be disguising quite a few things. And yet, unless Sebastian was just a wishful thinker, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd noticed a few nuances here and there that gave way to expressions more honest, almost revealed but still kept in check.

The Earl of Phantomhive was a more intriguing little thing than he'd ever expected, and for a moment, Sebastian sat with his back against the wall of the Phantomhive manor, glaring into the empty glass where it reflected light from the windows on the other side of the Lincolnshire wall, questioning why, exactly, the boy had to be the enemy. He knew this feel of intrigue well, because it was one he was familiar with—he'd felt it enough times to recognize it. And maybe the Beast had a valid point in calling it _obsession_. But dear God, all his other desires had been nothing but the shadows of this, swelling immense and hot in his chest—

There was a rustle in the foliage outside the wall, a muffled hiss of, "There! Found him!" before Grell tumbled out of the bushes with quite a few leaves stuck in his hair and his suitcoat falling off one shoulder, glasses on and mask casually affixed atop his head. The blond one followed, in his purple brocade—and behind him, the one with glasses, tailed by the Beast and William, all looking a bit disheveled and reckless but satisfied all the same.

Grell came to a stop in front of him, perhaps not as steady on his feet as he should have been, and Sebastian looked up with an innocent smile. "You know," Sebastian said decidedly, "I have a pretty capable team if the lot of you managed to pull that off drunk."

"I'm not drunk, I'm tipsy," Grell insisted, throwing bothersome hair back over his shoulder. He grinned down at Sebastian with a strange gleam in his eye, and Sebastian's smile faded, brow knotting.

"What?" he asked, but the Beast interrupted.

"They didn't even search the damn place!" she cried, and Sebastian wondered how she was not freezing in what little she was wearing beneath the suitcoat so kindly offered by William. "Well, I mean, Will, that one guard almost caught you, but—seriously, it's been, what, an hour? And they didn't search outside the gates at all!"

"It's because nobody was injured," the one with glasses offered. "Why waste effort on finding a bunch of tricksters?"

"Good point," Sebastian agreed, jabbing a finger in his direction. Grell waved his hands to get Sebastian's attention again.

"Okay, be quiet for a second—we've got an idea and I think you're going to like it," Grell declared. All at once, the other members of BLACK circled closer, excitement dancing on their faces. And, in their shadows, Sebastian felt his stomach drop in dread.

"Do you, now...?" he whispered.

* * *

_scene V._

* * *

_Sebastian was getting REALLY close to the Earl!_

_Oh, were you, Sebastian? _

_This is a dangerous idea. I don't think your father would approve of it, at all. _

_Oh, no, look at his face—it's like Charysse and the others all over again. _

_Sebastian, are you really that soft?_

_Of course he is. He's trained to sling guns but he'd rather be holed up in the library or devoting every breath to some random beauty, remember?_

With a scatter of rocks and dead leaves, a scuff of his heel against stacked-stone, Sebastian slipped down the inside of the wall running along the edge of the Phantomhive estate. Palms raw and knees sore from hitting jutting stone, his feet hit the grass and he dropped to a crouch, waiting for sign of any guards nearby. A juvenile little exhilaration pumped through his nerves like something akin to an adrenaline rush, and as he caught his breath, Sebastian thought to himself, _They jest at scars that have yet to feel a real wound._ And how dare they accuse him of falling for a boy, for the enemy of his family, of all people? And he was not soft at all, because love was not a soft emotion in the least. It was temporary insanity, merciless and sick and dangerous, and they'd never understand that like he had. It was a contract, almost, a promise to devote every fiber of the being to one person and one person only, binding and all-consuming—and just as it had been after Rosalie, he hadn't believed in new contract until Charysse; and after Charysse, he hadn't believed in it again until Victoria, and now that Victoria's body was underground—

He followed the wall towards the manor, passing the vast cloister and slinking towards the shadows of the house, barely breathing just to keep a keen ear for the sound of anyone tailing him in turn. He'd heard stories that Phantomhive guards were brutal, and while that was an appealing challenge, he didn't really want to face it tonight. There was the crunch of well-manicured grass beneath his shoe as he inched along the southern wing of the manor, lingering among the vines and little trees against the Lincolnshire. There was a balcony overhead, casting warm light through its open doors like the many windows he'd avoided on his way around, and Sebastian froze in the shadows at the slight rustle of movement somewhere—perhaps above, on the balcony. He fell still, hoping he hadn't been seen. The night was silent for a moment, just the rush of the cool wind through the trees, the sounds of activity inside the big house muffled and far away, leaking out from the balcony threshold. And then:

"You're lucky I've kept the hounds in tonight," came a little voice from above, brisk and unsympathetic. "Haven't you heard? They're beasts. They'll tear you limb from limb."

Crouched in the shadow of the wall, Sebastian's momentary surprise faded into a smile, and he straightened up with a creak of leather holsters beneath his linen shirt as he noticed a familiar-looking revolver poking out over the edge of the balcony, from around the side of a little stone gargoyle perched on the corner, reflections of light bouncing off the muzzle. And how opportune that he had been passing by this balcony of all the ones on the house—

"Show yourself," was the demand that followed, sounding bored already. The Earl of Phantomhive's face appeared then, peeking out above from behind the little statue next to the gun in his hand, but when his eyes met Sebastian's, shifting forward into the pale slant of light at this corner of the house, he seemed to falter a little, recognition darting behind the mask of importance on his face. The night breeze, a bitter chill, kicked the hair off his temple and let Sebastian get a clearer look at the soft and white skin of his face, the big eyes written through with confusion—and just as he'd seen earlier in the grand hall and the courtyard, one eye was dark blue and the other a muddled mess of hues, graying pink or flushed-out violet.

"_You_—" was what the Earl—Ciel was his first name, if Sebastian remembered correctly—said next, and he spat it out like the word was the worst tasting one he'd ever spoken. He scowled, pulling his revolver down but not abandoning it just yet, slipping forward from the corner of the stone railing. "How the hell did you—? Have you been hiding out here all this time? The ball is over, most every guest is gone. What are you still doing here? I'll have you arrested for trespassing—"

"Many apologies, my lord," Sebastian purred before the boy could finish his tirade, dipping down into a wide bow. "I was just concerned about your well-being—"

Ciel snorted harshly from the balcony above, shifted and glanced over his shoulder quickly, as if making sure nobody was around. Sebastian's smile widened. "Well," Ciel said, leaning further down so his voice would carry on the cold night air without him having to raise it any higher, "thank you for your worries, but seriously, do you have any idea who I am? I don't need anybody's _concern_ for my well-being, especially not from a mere civilian."

"Pardon me," Sebastian murmured, moving closer to the wall beneath the balcony. Ciel scowled down at him with murderous intent. And Sebastian couldn't help but grin now, attempting humility but inexorably pleased. "But I thought the intrigue in the air was mutual."

"Tch," Ciel spat down at him, lip curling gently. He was in his bedclothes, a long white shirt above matching breeches, thin little legs horribly pale in juxtaposition with the dark stone. Sebastian wondered if he was cold.

"Well," Ciel said again, curtly, "you were horribly mistaken. I was just bored. Now, if you'll escort yourself out, it'll save me the trouble of alerting security."

"Oh, I wish you wouldn't lie..." Sebastian trailed off, voice cutting smooth and confident in the air, and his smile broadened a little more. _That_ was a bold move, and if it worked like he thought it would...

Ciel stared down at him with eyes cold in sudden analysis. The look on his face was startled, disgruntled—but after a few moments, he set his revolver down and laced his fingers on the balcony railing, hooked one ankle behind the other and called down, "What do you want?"

Sebastian stepped closer; his neck ached already from looking up so sharply. He wished there'd have been some vines or lattice to climb to get closer to the balcony—

"Take off your mask," Ciel demanded suddenly, and Sebastian blinked as he realized the revolver was back and pointed his way once more. Sebastian thought about it a moment, gnawing his lower lip. He was almost certain there would be no recognition past the black mask on Ciel's side of their acquaintance; not many people knew his direct to relation his father, which usually worked far in his advantage, but... With fleeting hesitation, he pulled the mask off and let it dangle idly from his fingertips as he met the boy's eyes again, steadily.

"I've been dying to meet the head of the Phantomhive family," Sebastian declared in a slow murmur, and there was a moment of silence in which his heart pounded below his throat and he wondered if the clouds slipping through Ciel's eyes were that of dawning realization.

But Ciel just shifted, drew his gun back and smiled thinly along the barrel of it before returning it out of sight. "If it's death you want, I can arrange it," he retorted coolly, low, beneath his breath, a joke and a promise all in one. Sebastian felt the relief slip down his spine, and wondered if it was too soon to accept it.

"So you admit that the intrigue is mutual?" he tried.

"I admit that you entertain me, and that's hard to do." Ciel propped his chin in his palms, raising his brows. "So, congratulations. And now that I see your face, sir, what do you want?"

"To talk to you." Sebastian shifted, passing his mask from hand to hand. He tried to soften his smile, to make it more pleasant. It seemed the boy really had no idea of his bloodline, of who stood below him, but he was known as a scrupulous businessman, so Sebastian couldn't be certain yet. He had to keep on his toes—

"And what makes you think I want to talk to _you_?" Ciel sniffed daintily, drumming an idle finger on his cheek.

"Even the most capable of people need a confidante," Sebastian insisted. "Especially those as young and encumbered as you."

"Cut it out. You'll give me cavities," Ciel murmured, barely audible on its descent from the balcony. Sebastian's brow knotted in momentary concern. "Really, now, why the hell should I trust a complete stranger beseeching me from below my _window_? Which, by the way, you're the first. Congratulations, again."

"Because," Sebastian shifted again, smile fading. He peered up at the boy on the balcony, somberly, mouth bitten into a thin line and lashes lowered on sharp eyes. "Because even as a complete stranger, I think you might find me reliable. And...talented. And I was sure someone of your standing could use someone like that, someone to _rely_ on, someone _skilled_. Someone who you might find useful in conducting your business as a Phantomhive, someone you might go to for opinion or information—"

"Let me guess." Ciel held up a hand, lashes lowered on icy eyes. "You're a gunslinger who no longer has a regular payment coming your way—I won't guess the circumstances—and you thought that maybe I was in need of someone with your abilities."

Sebastian floundered for words for just a moment, gawking up at him. Considered arguing, considered trying to sweet talk a little more—and then he just swallowed and smiled humbly, because what a _perfect _opportunity Ciel had so flawlessly set up for him. He called up, "If that's what you want me to be, that's what I am."

Ciel peered down at him from the balcony above, and his expression was something that caught Sebastian momentarily rapt—soft, childlike, eyes at half-mast and no longer cold and deliberate, but distant with thought, profound in their stare. Lips parted and hair dancing along his temple just as his collar and sleeves danced along his body, and in that moment, Sebastian wanted nothing more than to climb up the side of the house and join him on the balcony, to sit and talk about everything in the world and stare into expressions like that all night long, because he was determined to win him over. He wasn't sure why; there was just something mesmeric about the boy, something indubitable and powerful that just drew one in, a primal kind of force that Sebastian had no right to deny. It was a pull as subtle and natural and undeniable as the moon's, something pivotal that had sparked up warm and thrilling in his chest the moment he'd laid eyes on the heir of the Phantomhive family out on the dance floor in the vestibule, and it was like sensing the strings of fate as they moved. That was what made this different from Rosalie or Charysse or Victoria, washing all those old contracts and the anguish that accompanied each away and leaving him wanting nothing but more of this new tug on his soul and wherever it led. Not that he was soft. Not that he'd fallen in love again. Right, not that at all.

Above him, Ciel licked his lips, shifting to his other foot. "...You make me nervous," he announced finally, but the impatience had faded from his voice. "But don't think that means I like you just yet," he added quickly, frowning. "I confess, okay? That small intrigue you mentioned—I have it, yes. And maybe it's supposed to be intuition or something. I don't have an answer for you just yet, but I'll consider your proposition—"

"Will you meet me tomorrow night?"

Ciel blinked, recoiling from the edge of the balcony just as Sebastian craned further upwards. "What?" he called down, brow knotting.

Sebastian passed his mask to the other hand again, getting restive in impatience. "Will you meet me tomorrow night, to discuss business matters further? We can meet at St. Vincent's Church, in Romanov Square, after night's fallen if that makes you feel more comfortable."

"Right, meeting somewhere in the dark just makes me feel cozy and safe." Ciel snorted gently, draping his arms over the side of the balcony and leaning down again. His eyes flashed once more, with the passing of meticulous thoughts. "St. Vincent's in Romanov Square is fine. As long as it's not St. Mikael's."

"Never," Sebastian murmured. "That's Michaelis territory."

Ciel smiled thinly, running his fingers along the stone edge of the balcony railing. "Well, then. Now that that's settled. Is there anything more from you, or should I call security to escort you out? Perhaps you could give me your name? Maybe a promise of loyalty? You don't find it a little odd that a gunslinger looking for a position _just so happened_ to be on the scene when a shooting occurred, do you?"

Sebastian laughed, because what a smart little boy this Earl was. But then he bit his lip, meeting Ciel's eyes again. He lifted a hand, straightening up solemnly. "My lord, Earl of Phantomhive, I—Sebastian, ah... Sebastian E. Rook—swear by the moon above in the sky—"

"Oh, God, what are you, Romeo?" His voice was caustic with disgust, but his eyes danced. Sebastian blinked, startled.

"The moon is powerful," he insisted, meeting Ciel's eyes with a frank frown. Ciel's expression didn't waver; he returned the stare, stubborn and smug in his austerity. Sebastian sighed. "...What do you suggest I swear by, then?"

"Your life." Ciel motioned down to him, the mask of nonchalance passing over his face again. "Because, _Sebastian E. Rook_, if I find reason to suspect you of betrayal, I'll have you executed in front of everyone you love and hold dear. And then I might kill them, too, if I feel the need. And you'll all be tossed in Lovers' Lane to be picked up by the undertaker and taken away to his shop to be used as guinea pigs for his medical experiments. Does that sound good?"

Sebastian gawked, hand hanging in the air. His heart fluttered up beneath his throat, hammering there excitedly. Because the more the kid spoke, the harsher he was, the more that irrefutable intrigue grew and grew, filling him with an exhilaration he hadn't expected. He smirked, turning honest eyes up to the boy on the balcony, silhouetted against the light spilling out from his bedroom. And in the back of his mind—

_Alright, well, if you were getting as close to the Earl as Alois says you were, here's an idea, Sebastian. Get closer to him. We're talking really close—pretend to be arbitrary, get him to trust you. And through that, we'll have a connection directly to the inside of the Phantomhives! That's like, an express ticket straight to the top! We'll get a direct feed of the most pertinent information, and we'll know exactly what's going on in his head... If you do it, I mean. You WILL do it—right, Sebastian? I know you can. You weren't soft until a few years ago. You can't fool me. I know that proud Michaelis blood still runs through you, you can't deny it... So, you're gonna do it—right, Sebastian? _

Sebastian's smile widened, and he straightened up, letting Ciel's critical, mismatched eyes flicker over him in scrutiny. "I swear by my life," he murmured. "And hereby do give you the power to do so, should you feel the need."

Ciel turned his nose up, and Sebastian watched, wishing he wouldn't stifle the smile so obviously waiting at the corners of his mouth. He took a step back from the balcony with a curt nod, retrieving his gun and slipping back towards the open doors to his bedroom. There was a clatter, a sound of voices from within the house, and finally Ciel conceded to the smile, offering it in the last of the light as a servant appeared next to him with a rather large and out-of-place smoking jacket.

"Tanaka," Ciel murmured, motioning over the edge of the balcony with his free hand. "Please have security escort Mr. Sebastian here off the grounds. He got a little lost in all the commotion earlier."

Sebastian chuckled below his breath as he watched the butler pull the balcony doors shut, heard his murmured answer and the latch of the locks—and through the window panes of the doors, the Earl of Phantomhive was still smiling as he turned away and slipped into the smoking jacket held out for him.

Five minutes later, security shut the gates at the front of the manor behind him, and Sebastian threw his mask in the air with an accomplished laugh before hurrying off to find the rest of BLACK.

* * *

_My name be buried where my body is_, _and live no more to shame nor me nor you. For I am ashamed by that which I bring forth, and so should you, to love things nothing worth._

William Shakespeare, Sonnet 72.

* * *

_the curtain rises on Act II on October 16._


	4. act II: scenes I, II, and III

**rooks and romanticide.**

**Disclaimers: I do not own.**

**Rating/Warning: AU; T+ and M in specific scenes; graphic content such as violence, recreational substance use references, explicit scenes and mature themes. **

* * *

_act II: revenge._

_scenes i, ii, and iii._

* * *

_scene I._

* * *

Empty and at night, the church seemed to be a monument to all things dark and daunting. Tall belfry and crosses, stained-glass and granite Mary out front, the railing around the cemetery a sharp row of shadowy teeth in the back—and overhead, the sky was black, and the trees were hideous shadows, and the October air was wet and deadly. Ciel checked his guns, managing to keep a straight face out on the street—but once he'd slipped through the heavy doors and into the orthodox and the cliché, chills rattled his body because it was like stepping through a rip in reality and slipping through the crack into another world altogether. A sinister world, a twisted world, a place where bad men's faces danced in eternal mockery in the back of his head, where morals and values had been distorted and beaten into the soul through litany after litany. He was well aware of the state of his own spiritual being, but when his footsteps echoed on the smooth marble floor of the sanctuary, he couldn't help but feel small and helpless again. Vulnerable, at the mercy of some greater power—God, or something else, he was never quite sure.

He stopped as he shut the doors to the sanctuary behind him, gawking down the aisle at the massive painted glass across the room. And the crucifix beneath it, and the altar, all draped in the shadow of the night; moonlight filtered in through the windows at the front, skylights in the vaulted ceiling, the frosted window. He swallowed on a raw throat, heart fluttering sickeningly below it.

There was the sound of movement off to the right, a little _skrit_ of leather, and just as he had done three or four times on his way to St. Vincent's, Ciel whipped out his gun and waited, hiding behind the barrel. There was silence as his eyes adjusted to the darkness—silence, and maybe the sound of nighttime animals outside, the rustle of the wind—and for the umpteenth time, Ciel thought about what he would do if this had all been a trap. Madame Red was waiting outside on the street, patiently biding her time in the gloom until she heard the signal from him, and if she did— Oh, St. Vincent's would be bloody, tonight—

A body moved forth from the shadows near the confessional booths, and as it slipped into the light leaking through the stained-glass, Ciel recognized the soft face of the young man that had hidden behind the black mask the night before.

"Good evening, Sebastian," he murmured, evaluating him from behind his revolver.

"Good evening, Earl Phantomhive," Sebastian returned, and his smile was almost eerie in the dim light. Ciel's mouth twitched. He shifted to the other foot. Sebastian held his hands up, innocent, as he stepped forward a bit more—and Ciel moved backwards an inch or two in turn. "Please, my lord, believe me," he said. "I'm not armed."

"Even civilians are armed these days, especially on the streets of New London." Ciel pursed his lips in disdain. "I think the first thing you should keep in mind, Sebastian, if you want to work for me, is not to lie."

"Duly noted," Sebastian declared, and his voice was clear in the nighttime hush, smooth and content. Almost frivolous, but not quite. He dropped his hands, discarding the act of mystery as he moved over to the back row of pews, skirting the side of it and flopping down to sit. Ciel followed him with the point of his gun, frowning. Sebastian tucked a few stray strands of hair behind one ear and turned, draping an arm over the back of the pew as he met Ciel's eyes in the dark sanctuary. "...Do you trust I've come alone?"

"I trust no one," Ciel offered with well-mannered contempt.

"Will you join me?" Sebastian invited, smiling innocently and drumming his fingers on the back of the pew like a trouble-making schoolboy. Ciel regarded him in scrutiny for a moment; in the silence, the sounds of metal and movement were cold, sharp, footsteps echoing as he lowered his gun and moved to the pew opposite the aisle of Sebastian. He sat down, leaned forward on his knees and cradled the revolver between them, watching the young man with lashes lowered on a critical glare. And with the hymnals and Bibles, yellowing and dog-eared and tucked neatly underneath the pew ahead of him, and the smell and the chill of the vast room memory-inducing, Ciel licked his lips and said, "So, it may be an unconventional setting, but it's still a meeting. Speak."

"Yes, sir," Sebastian complied cheerily, and Ciel grunted, wondering if it was supposed to be mockery. "To be honest, I wish the feud didn't place such a margin on who's trustworthy or not. It makes for a rather difficult living as an arbitrary citizen." From across the aisle, Sebastian's lashes lowered on stony eyes. Ciel raised his brows with a curt, impatient frown; he leaned back, hooked one leg over the other and crossed his arms, meeting Sebastian's stare as he continued his deposition. "I'm no more a follower of you as I am of the Michaelis family. In truth, I'm not sure I truly have a purpose on this earth beyond my guns. I was trained, you see, from a young age, and I don't really know any other kind of life... But recently, I've decided to follow _my _whims and see where they take me. I've been praying, you see—"

"Ah. Thus, we meet in a church."

"...I'm a poor excuse for a man, I know." Sebastian laughed with a sheepish pinch of chagrin on his face. "I suppose I'm a little..._soft_ for a gunslinger. But, I have. I've been praying again, something I gave up years ago. And then the other day, a man dropped his invitation to the Phantomhive ball out on the street, and... Well, I wasn't going to just give it up. Following my whims, and all. And I'm glad I went, because then I ran into you, and now there's just this constant nibbling at my mind and soul, and it won't let me move on. So I thought, maybe it's the strings of fate? I mean..._following my whims_, and all. And there you have it. That's my pathetic reasoning as to why I would like to work for you. I just _want_ to."

When he spoke, his voice was low and even, carefully maintained calm. Maybe too collected, too composed—but there was something in the shadows of the young man's face, a muted kind of honesty, the look of someone who had lived a life full of suppressed opinions and subdued thoughts and was finally speaking his mind, as uncomfortable as it was. And because of that, Ciel fidgeted, and he couldn't help but believe him, whether in pity or sympathy.

But he still couldn't trust him completely; in a world such as theirs, everyone was a suspect, arbitrary or not—vulnerable, soft-hearted, or not. He shrugged, mouth twisting in a little frown. "Well, Sebastian, as endearing as you are, I already have a capable team working under me, and I'm afraid I don't think I need anyone new. But, perhaps... Perhaps I _could _use someone with experiences different than mine, or if I need counsel from someone of your, uh...status. And maybe you could be a street-runner. If you're as neutral as you claim, I could send you into places that are too dangerous for me to explore, even armed. Sebastian, is that alright with you? Would you be willing to be that, nothing but my hidden ace? I'll pay you, of course, but don't expect a sum of money as large as you might have gotten when contracted—"

Sebastian chuckled, a few strands of hair falling in his eyes as he propped his elbows on the rigid seatback and kicked a foot up to rest his heel on the top of the pew in front of him. And Ciel liked the way he was so _soft_, to put it in his words, but still gave off the air of somebody who did what he wanted, regardless. And it was sly, like a snake—or a fox—and Ciel shifted, fingers tapping on the butt of his revolver. He didn't exactly _look_ like a whimsical killer, either, in his sable-collared jacket, loose shirt and leather weapons' belt. Wispy hair, pretty lips and the chorus of belt buckles and buttons hidden along his body, long lashes over intense eyes that glinted with a childlike intelligence. He looked clever, so clever, but young and innocent at the same time, a perplexing and charming concurrence. Ciel liked it.

"Oh, I don't need money," Sebastian insisted, smiling at him with a kindness nearly ominous as the last of Ciel's mistrust moved behind his eyes. "Er, rather... I won't accept it for an odd job such as this."

"Is that your _whims_ talking?" Ciel cut across the aisle, voice terse below his breath.

"Maybe." Sebastian grinned, and his fingers twitched in the air behind the seatback of the pew; Ciel wondered if that was because he was a smoker, or if he was simply fidgeting. "You could always...pay me with your company, my lord."

Ciel scoffed, dropping both feet to the ground with heavy steps that echoed in the sanctuary. "Alright, Sebastian. I have two suspicions. The first is that you have clandestine intentions here, that you're trying to trick me. Even following their whims, who in their right mind would refuse money? And the second being that you might like me a little too much to simply be chasing a job."

Sebastian uttered a sound of surprise, leveling an astonished frown with Ciel's glare. His brow knotted, and then rose, and when he spoke, it was with an air of apology, as if he had never expected to be so direly misunderstood. "Oh, no. Please, Earl Phantomhive, if you don't trust my word, shoot me right now. Here. End your doubt, and never be troubled by it again. And as for the second matter on your mind... Ciel, I would only hope to flatter you, but if it's _romantic _affection you're referring to, I'll gladly assure you that it's an empty threat."

Ciel's mouth fell open in childish embarrassment, and he was dumbfounded for a moment. His brow knotted as his eyes narrowed, critical. And he wasn't as angry that Sebastian had dared call him by the first name as he was that he had the insolence to insist he'd been wrong. Because it wasn't like he went around accusing _anyone_ of fostering feelings for him, and really, the sheer _audacity_ that he'd turned him down so swiftly— And being in the church, being there, it made it so easy to forget himself and resort to practice and instinct again, and before he realized it, Ciel felt himself giving Sebastian a look of quiet lust, tempting him, trying to break him should he be bluffing. Because that was how you broke someone enveloped in a farce—you showed them how honest you could be, laying yourself on the line and offering until they took the bait and you withdrew before you got hurt—

Sebastian seemed to fall for it for just a moment, lashes lowering on dark eyes and smile fading as he returned Ciel's stare across the aisle. And then he stood, and as Ciel bristled and tightened his grip on his gun, Sebastian dropped into a respectful bow before him, in the aisle to the right of Ciel's pew. Ciel scowled at him, shifting. The light from the vaulted windows hit Sebastian just right, and Ciel fell still, eyes widening, deadpanning beneath Sebastian's gaze. His eyes, intense and lucid, but still pools of mystery, probed into him as if they knew everything about him already but wanted to know more. It was something sensual and flustering—that he didn't really mind, and he didn't know why. It was thrilling, like a game; it was alluring, like that foreign idea of a _bond_ between two humans, the one that he thought was pure nonsense and fairy tale rubbish; it was flattering, because he'd never taken notice in someone taking notice of _him_ before, and the fact that he felt it obviously meant something; it was comforting, warm like the way his father would look at him, and maybe that was what swayed Ciel towards accepting it. Whatever _it_ was, relative to romance and desire. And then:

"Maybe," Sebastian whispered, smoothly cutting the silence, "judging by the eyes you give me, you like _me_ too much, my lord. And that's why you'll agree to many more meetings with your hidden ace."

Ciel sputtered for a moment, then caught his breath and lifted his chin and tried to gather composure again, eyes narrowing. "As long as my hidden ace remembers his _place_. Any amount of intrigue will never change it, I promise."

"Oh, trust me," Sebastian murmured. "I will always remember my place, so long as I am graced by your presence."

"You confuse me," Ciel hissed, motioning for Sebastian to stand again. "This meeting is over. Where are you from, Sebastian? How will I get in touch with you to meet again? This is stupid, you know, setting up a deal like this and lacking such basic information about you."

Sebastian stood, smiling down at him. Turned and began walking away, footsteps echoing. And Ciel was left reeling, again, by the way he seemed such a capable young man and yet he insisted he was _soft_. He frowned, sharply, watching him go. Foolishly, turning his back on an armed stranger. But his fingers relaxed on his revolver, and Sebastian stopped near the sanctuary doors and peered at him over his shoulder. His voice carried smooth across the silence. "I'll send a packet with all the information you'll need to contact me. That way you can have it on file, too, as verification that we have an understanding here—so, should you ever suspect me of betrayal, you'll have proof we had a deal. Are you okay with that, my lord?"

"I'm fine with it," Ciel huffed, standing in turn amongst the pews. Sebastian eyed at him in silence a moment longer, then pushed through the heavy doors and disappeared into the nighttime outside. Ciel lingered, thoughts wrestling. He didn't like the way Sebastian wormed in under his skin and made him flustered, trusting him even amidst his misgivings. But then the discomfort of being alone in the church began to creep into his bones, and he hurried out to the mausoleum near the entrance of the cemetery, where Madame Red loitered in waiting, and although she asked questions, he didn't feel like talking as they made their way back to the manor in the fog pooling beneath streetlamps.

* * *

_scene II._

* * *

The packet included a telephone number to call at some apartment on the Rue, an accompanying address and a number of written references that Ciel didn't care about, anyway. Books, too. The packet the messenger had delivered to the footman included two books, too—three of Poe's works in one volume, bound together by leather. _The Masque of the Red Death_, _The Spectacles_, _The Fall of the House of Usher_, and one individually published poem, _The Raven_. Ciel scoffed, throwing the little paperback down on the packet lying open on his desk, next to the trilogy.

"Whatever," he said, pushing the items to the side of the desk, where a butler waited patiently for directions. "Put the information into a file and throw the books on the shelf in my room. Now, to discuss more important matters..."

He turned back to the men smoking on the couch across his office once the butler hurried out with the information and the books. Clause, Lau, Rodney, Graham. And Madame Red, sifting through the shelved books in the other corner of the room, humming to herself and pretending not to be involved. Ciel sighed, cradling his temple in his fingertips. "So, Clause, tell that toy company we'll gladly help fund their new factory plans, as long as we get at least twenty percent of their biggest profit. Lau, you still owe us that check from the last shipment of your goods from the Orient, and Rodney, Graham—what's the word with the robberies on D'Laim? Are the Michaelis involved? And even if they aren't, are you still planning on screwing their order of fabrics? I mean, it's just a bunch of worthless junk for their wives and daughters, it doesn't really matter, does it? Even in silk, they'll still look cheap..."

* * *

The Michaelis library housed thousands of books, old and new alike, well-loved leather and battered paperbacks, hardcovers, critical texts, a broad expanse of all sorts of fiction. The shelves rowed the tall walls nearly to the vaulted ceiling, the lamps casting light over the second floor and its railings, the stepstools and ladders, the globes and statues near the divans and sofas in the middle of the room, the custom-carved oak desks and plush chairs in the far corners. Gothic and elaborate, dim with stone fireplaces continually alight. There was also a row of books near the servants' entrance to the library, with a candelabra sitting on a smooth-surfaced marble table near the door, and when this candelabra was twisted sharply to the left, there was a _creak _as muffled and ominous as if the large house were groaning—the snap of a hidden latch and the screeching moan beneath floorboards of a secret doorway opening onto a private lounge, and that was where Sebastian liked to hide with a stack of books. And it was exactly where Grell found him, just as he'd suspected, because Sebastian had been closing himself in the concealed room with all its leather and velvet furniture and iron-faced hearth since he was ten years old.

Grell jerked on the candelabra, and greeted the room as it was revealed with a sunny grin and one hand propped on a hip, the other waving idly. "Hullo," he sing-songed. He waltzed into the room even though Sebastian refused to acknowledge his presence. He kept his nose in the book he was reading, legs drawn up and crossed Indian-style beneath him on the sofa, and Grell lingered at the entrance to the lounge, shelves hanging open, smile faltering. For a moment, he was struck by nostalgia that was drenched in something sad and forlorn, and he wasn't sure why; there had been many rainy, boring afternoons where he'd searched the house over for Sebastian only to find him holed up here and reading away his time—lore, history, theology, science. And he always looked just like he did now, peaceful and quiet, soft, distant. Like there was no possible way he could kill someone in cold blood, like there was no physical way he could manipulate someone as flawlessly as the devil himself, seductive and sweet but carefully calculated, painfully detailed in his motions and never satisfied until he was right. He looked like a guileless schoolboy, and sometimes Grell wondered if, perhaps, that was what he'd been destined to be in the first place.

Grell huffed a dramatic breath, dancing into the room and around the back of the couch Sebastian sat curled up in. He hung his head over his shoulder, purposefully letting his hair fall in Sebastian's face. He was reading one of the many copies of Machiavelli's works, this one another long-winded and dreary piece that Grell could care less about. _La Mandragola_, the page said at the top, and Grell sighed another heavy sigh in need of attention. But, just as he had since the two had been introduced—Grell, joining the Michaelis family in their manor once his mother married Lord Michaelis's half-brother nine years ago, little and pretty-eyed with thick auburn locks already past his ears and a complex ready for the nobility now his by marriage—Sebastian ignored him, something he'd turned into a talent. He lifted Grell's hair with a forearm, moving the curtain of red to resume reading. Grell stomped his foot, pulling away to reach for the book in Sebastian's hand—which Sebastian effortlessly held too far for him to snatch from behind the sofa, so Grell grabbed a handful of dark bangs and tucked them behind Sebastian's ears, humming to himself. A normal routine of pestering until Sebastian finally gave in. Which he did, eventually, as always, but over the years, it had gone from well-mannered scowls and polite fists to obligated sighs and blank glances. The aforementioned glance finally landed on Grell from below thick lashes, and Grell smiled.

"Your dad's looking for you," he announced, beads of his glasses chattering together, even before Sebastian opened his mouth. "Supper's done, and after that, BLACK's meeting in the billiards room to clean guns, talk about recent activities and current events. You coming?"

Sebastian regarded him with a curt silence, then closed his book and returned it to the pile next to him. "Why not."

"You've got a lot on your mind," Grell surmised suddenly, and poked the place between Sebastian's brows where a crease had formed a permanent home there. "You only get this dimple when you're really eaten up by something. The last time you had it was before Quinton and the others left BLACK—"

Sebastian swatted Grell's hand away, leaving his books where they were, confident nobody would move them. He climbed off the couch as if it were a great task to do so, motioning for Grell to follow him as he slipped a hand into his hip pocket, just below his sweater. "I'm assuming BLACK's not_ just_ cleaning guns and shooting the breeze," he said. "Do me a favor, Grell. Don't bring any drinks for me, but save a kretek or two, I guess."

* * *

Supper at the Michaelis house was four star, per usual, at the long table in the main dining hall. The chairs there were reserved for family only, and live-in members of the household—such as the Beast, the one with glasses, and Alois, the little blond one, and other people not part of the family but higher than mere servants—ate in the adjacent room, not quite as grand, but illustrious enough. Grell and his mother, bejeweled and just as lurid, sat further to the end of the table; closer to the head of it was William and his parents, and the men and women in between that connected each one of them to the Michaelis name. And, at a corner to his father's left, Sebastian sat across from his mother, and ate his dinner in silence. And, probably, his mother was taking mental notes on how he was too quiet, too withdrawn, giving off an air of melancholy not proper for his stature. And, probably, his father didn't notice, because he was always talking, his boisterous voice and quixotic gestures booming down to the opposite end of the hall and back, servants hurrying to and fro like animate pieces of furniture behind the chairs. Afterwards, in the billiards room, polishing the lever on one of his pump-actions, Sebastian smoked both kreteks Grell offered him and only after that, Sebastian shared a bit of laughter with the rest of them.

* * *

By the end of the week, Ciel called the phone number at the house on the Rue and left a message for Sebastian that, if he was still interested in the job, another meeting would be held at the place of his most recent favorite activity. A code, a secret bit of information that, unless the man who answered and claimed to be Sebastian's roommate knew about Sebastian's sudden re-interest in the divine, would be understood by the gunslinger only: St. Vincent's, Thursday night. They met there, with the same rigid and wary austerity as their first meeting, in the pale light of the sanctuary with the candles still smoking and the crucifix grimacing down at them, but before either really noticed, matters of business were only regarded with a playful air, gentle jests and quips about bloody topics of discussion.

They met again Sunday night. Tuesday night. Wednesday night. And by the next Thursday night, Sebastian joined him in the same pew, and Ciel let him without much of a rebuttal. Just a smug little sniff and a kind smirk, and by now, they just talked, anyway. The introductions were conducted by way of business updates, that soon became sly little talks, comfortable flirtations, playing the games of new friendship—because a new friendship was most certainly what had bloomed in the moonlight, arrived in the mind as true and comfortable one morning, unquestioned, and even the biggest of pride could not refuse something so natural and engaging.

The third week of sporadic meetings, when Sebastian admitted he had a weak spot for cats, Ciel laughed—an honest laugh—and it was the most beautiful sound Sebastian ever heard.

The fourth week, Sebastian brought a little silver lighter engraved with the lion-guarded crest of the Michaelis family and lit a candle between them where they sat like two schoolboys breeching a bed time, the shadows dancing on their faces. He pulled out a clove cigarette, and around it and its spicy smoke, he explained that he'd found the dented lighter in the gutter, trying to mollify the sudden darkness of hate on Ciel's face. With the shadows hopping in the candlelight, the boy looked dangerous.

"How much do you know about me?" Ciel murmured over the little sanctuary candle they'd stolen from the altar beneath the crucifix. "Obviously not enough."

"What are you talking about?" Sebastian whispered in turn, lashes lowered on deep eyes as he flicked black ash over the edge of the pew and filled the sanctuary with a scent like sinful incense.

"The feud between Phantomhive and Michaelis," Ciel reminded him, and when Sebastian stared back stupidly, Ciel huffed a breath and shifted a bit, careful not to knock the candle over, then laced his fingers against his lips and explained. "The feud itself runs deep. You know that. But with _my_ standing as the Phantomhive heir, my focus is not on ancient bloodlust. Mine lies in the present. My parents were murdered. I think you know _that_, as well. And I _know_ that the culprits are of Michaelis descent, because no petty gang could gauge something so perfect—killing my parents and making _my life_ a living hell for three months. I'm going to make them pay. I'm going to make them bow down and kiss my feet. That, Sebastian, is the Phantomhive focus while I am the head of the family. You get it now, right?"

"You will not rest until you've exacted your revenge," Sebastian reiterated, chewing his lip after taking a drag from the black cigarette smoldering between his knuckles. "I understand," he murmured, voice distant in thought, and the smoke from his mouth joined the smoke from the candle, and Ciel stared into the flame in silence.

"Well." Sebastian put his cigarette out on the back of a pew, a blatant desecration Ciel couldn't help but smile about. The gunslinger drummed his fingers on his knee. "I owe you now, hunh? So I told you before about how I'm rather _soft_ for a gunslinger—now, don't get me wrong, I'm a trained killer, but I have to confess my love for reading. Did you get the books I sent you—?"

Ciel nodded, licking his lips. Turbid, analytical eyes at half-mast.

"I love to read," Sebastian said again. "I eat up any book that catches my interest. I particularly enjoy darker fiction, and the writings of Goethe and Paracelsus."

"Paracelsus," Ciel confirmed, with an echo of skepticism in his voice.

"And Aristotle," Sebastian added, smiling his confusing smile. "And, I suppose, former acquaintances and bosses saw me as _soft_ because of that. My appetite for reading. Or maybe it was the girls—"

Ciel cut his eyes up to meet Sebastian's quickly, and when he noticed that Sebastian grinned at the gesture, he looked away just as sharply, trying to seem unaffected.

"Yeah. Maybe it was the girls," Sebastian mumbled. He toyed with his lighter, running a thumb over the ridges of the little crest. "I've fallen in love before. Well, no, I guess—I've fallen in contract before. That's what love is to me, actually. Just another contract. A promise to devote your life to someone by their conditions. Love isn't soft, Ciel. It's monstrous. I've come to realize that—just like, after each of our contracts came to an end, I realized that I didn't love any of them as much as I thought I had, anyway. The throes of being a young man, maybe."

"Oh, you're as long-winded and philosophical as a poet," Ciel grumbled beneath his breath. "Maybe that should have been your chosen profession."

"Ah." Sebastian held up a finger, long and white. Ciel watched it, mouth twisted in a sharp frown. "But there's the catch, my lord. The key word is _chosen_."

The fifth week they met, into the days of November now, they were not an Earl and a gunslinger. They were two people ignoring the chains of duty, innocent like children on a summer afternoon—a very young man and a proud boy, and two mouths meeting in a papery, thin-lipped kiss of awkward politeness that, within a breath or two, became soft and perfectly fit. And the light spilled in through the skylights and the stained-glass, a hand twitched with a violent urge far opposite that of a young mind's, and the silence in the sanctuary echoed with the sound of sin and amour as, after a brief pause where prides were checked and, still intact, stowed away in a protective corner of the soul, the kisses deepened and chins and noses bobbed together tentatively.

And from that point onward, business meetings were exciting rendezvous, a sly hint that perhaps security might be lax on a certain wing of the house that night, an installation of lattice along a southwest wall, a flustered Earl peeking out from behind a granite gargoyle and smiling over the side of the balcony at a gunslinger grinning patiently beneath; secret maneuvers of time and place, careful evasion of eyes that might see too much when a black sheep son wandered about the house, but did not retreat to a secret library—when a young Earl slipped out and down a stacked-stone wall, too-big smoking jacket hiding a fully-dressed body ready to slither through the darkness with a midnight visitor—like two children sneaking around. Meeting under the moonlight to _discuss business matters_, although those business matters eventually became matters of tongue and teeth and gentle hands, the sway of bodies eager and trusting but still too reluctant to press together just yet. And although no one asked, the face still flushed in coy rue when a servant or an acquaintance cast a silent and ignorant glance, and thrilled thoughts of night excursions leaked into the mind during the day when focus should be directed at more important things. Investigations, business deals, the keeping of a noble house, and all the while, distrait because of what lay in waiting once the moon rose.

Secrets, childish secrets, and perhaps too childish to be safe—childish secrets, maybe, but they were adults. Hardly adults, but still responsible and mature. Both were quite aware of their moral position, so it wasn't a question of right or wrong, but nobody else had to know because this intrigue they were exploring together was _theirs _and theirs alone. Predestined, nonjudgmental, raw passion from two children who had been forced to stifle themselves in separate but equally unjust situations. Fairy tale, almost. Surreal. Fate. Bloodstained fate for two children with bloodstained hands, and they were helpless to change it.

* * *

_scene III._

* * *

"Hey, lover boy..." The Beast lowered herself over the fingertips splayed on the piano in the front hall, smiling something almost too harsh to not be considered a sneer above the cleavage overflowing from her blouse. Sebastian blinked up at her, fingers poised above the keys. Behind her was William, adjusting his glasses and looking uncomfortable as always. Across the hall, in the archway to the parlor, the blond one and the one with glasses—Claude, Sebastian had discovered again the other night while smoking his second kretek, and perhaps it wasn't exactly _right_ to constantly forget the names of the members of his team, but oh, well—lingered against the marble, and Grell was nowhere to be seen.

"Yes?" Sebastian murmured, looking back at the Beast. Her smile had crossed the line and become a pure simper, black ringlets bouncing at her ears. Her beauty mark and dark lips made her look all the more ascetic. Gypsy, almost. She drummed her fingers on the top of the piano, nails a sharp staccato.

"We were just curious, darling," she purred, and it was somehow acidic. "It's been nearly two months, now. What's the word on Plan F?"

"Who made it Plan F?" William's mouth twisted in doubt, a perpetual discomforted frown. The Beast didn't even spare him a glance; she rolled big, brown eyes before settling them on Sebastian again, talking to him as if he'd been the one who'd spoken.

"Plan _F_ for _Fake_. Faking a friendship with the Earl, or something. Getting close to him. You keep telling us it's going smoothly, there's no suspicions, but—" The Beast's nose wrinkled in a girlish snarl. Behind her, across the front hall in the marble archway, the blond one started laughing where Claude had pulled him tight in a suggestive embrace. "—I want a serious update. _We_ want a serious update. So, what's the scoop, Sebastian?"

Sebastian peered at her a moment, watched William fidget in his periphery; he licked his lips, seeking the will to involve himself again as he met the Beast's eyes. And it wasn't so much reluctance or hesitance as it was a simple loathing of the people around him, and a little clutch of distress as it hit him yet again that his relationship with the Phantomhive heir was being closely monitored, and _yet again_, in his—what had the Beast called it before? Obsession? Whatever it was, in it, he'd forgotten over and over that he was not the master of this game he played.

But perhaps he was, because he was the leader of BLACK. Sebastian shifted, brushing a finger along a black key. "If you're really curious, a bridge of trust has been built between us—a _strong _bridge of trust. Which, I'll remind you, is an incredibly difficult task to undertake with the Earl of Phantomhive. It's taken this long to do so, if you believe me."

The Beast opened her mouth, and Sebastian felt his eyes narrow. He didn't let her speak.

"And," he said brusquely, "now that there's a bridge of trust built, there's something reliable to cross to get closer to the Phantomhives. He's a complex boy who requires much patience and vigilant exploration, which I thought was why _I_ was assigned to this little _Plan F_ of ours. It's only a matter of time now until we can utilize it. It's just not the _right_ time, yet. I'm keeping wary, though, I promise. Are you satisfied with that, Beast?"

Her mouth shut with a sharp _click_ of the teeth and she frowned, less severely and more in honest consideration of this. Her fingertips drummed, and William shifted with a terse sigh behind her. Claude and the blond one—Alois—were fooling around in the archway across the hall, maybe stealing kisses without the secrecy of thieves.

"...I don't understand you," the Beast murmured over the big piano, "and sometimes that scares me. You should thank Joker every night for convincing me to trust you."

Sebastian offered a thin smile, lashes lowering. "He crosses your mind enough, so why don't you thank him for me? I don't think it's right for me to."

She gave him a look that was supposed to be sour, but the mask of her face was wavering and the knot in her throat was obvious. She turned sharply on a heel, breasts bouncing in their thin linen nest above whalebone and butt of her gun showing above the pockets of her trousers. She hooked her fingers in William's sleeve, dragging him with her, and William sent Sebastian a glance that promised he'd talk to him later. Their footsteps echoed in the vast vestibule, voices hissing whispers as they met up with the other two in the archway to the parlor. They disappeared through it, drifting away into other corners of the house, and Sebastian gawked at the keys on the piano for a moment. Black, white, smooth and polished. He thought about BLACK. He thought about their lackadaisical missions, their antics—so safe and juvenile compared to the previous members of BLACK. And he thought of his responsibility as the new leader, to them, as well as to his father and his name. _Plan F_, she called it. He thought about the Joker, and the way half of his arm had fallen on the other side of the street as he reached for the Beast with the other, his blood staining the same cobbles as Victoria's, and the way Sebastian had been forced to pull the Beast away after the Joker's living hand finally dropped and the Phantomhive "protective services"—done away with after the Earl and his wife were murdered and the feud fell to uncultivated brutality—ran like the bunch of cowards they were.

Sebastian thought of the remaining heir of the Phantomhives and the way he looked when he spoke, regal and nostalgic, tragic and beautiful at the same time. Mismatched eyes, wispy layers of dark hair. Perfect little face and the way he kissed, the way he smiled, the way he laughed. His seriousness, and his peacefulness—pretty like death, a macabre air he embraced. Sebastian thought about the Earl's revenge, and the way his eyes flashed with honesty when he spoke of it—and the way his eyes shone with the same honesty when their mouths drew apart, wet, and breaths tumbled out after being held, and his fingertips touched Sebastian's face and his waist was warm and thin under Sebastian's palm, a silence between them in which he could feel his heartbeat. The way the Earl had looked years ago, when he'd found his parents—the way he'd trudged along, oblivious and dazed, to Wolfe and Quinton and the Joker with their open hands and wily smiles. The way Sebastian had thrown up with guilt, and the feeling now that maybe this intrigue of his, this yearning to know Ciel Phantomhive, had actually begun on a sludgy afternoon above Lovers' Lane two years ago—

Sebastian's mouth twitched, but he wouldn't give in to the scowl. He slammed the cover of the piano keys down, listened to the _bang_ echo in the nooks and crannies of the front hall as he shoved away from the piano and strode out of the vestibule with steady footsteps. His stack of books from earlier was still waiting somewhere in the library. And, really, they all wondered why he stowed away in his own corner while everyone else roamed the house.

* * *

_None are more helplessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free._

Goethe.

* * *

_Act II resumes on October 23._


	5. act II: scenes IV, V, and VI

**rooks and romanticide.**

**Disclaimers: I do not own.**

**Rating/Warning: AU; T+ and M in specific scenes; graphic content such as violence, recreational substance use references, explicit scenes and mature themes. **

* * *

_act II: revenge._

_scenes iv, v, and vi._

* * *

_scene IV._

* * *

"BLACK. Like the color?"

Footsteps were quick, a hastening pace through puddles and uneven cobblestones, following the shortcuts through jumbled, grimy narrow alleyways and between buildings to avoid the mayhem on the main streets—the panic, the possible blame, the plebeians.

"Yes. And, see—it's a gang of actual members of the Michaelis house, not mere civilians! The group has been relatively inactive and elusive, most likely because they've changed members since then, but the reasons for this are unknown and the former members have been banished from New London—that we're aware of."

The grip of Madame Red's pistol matched the color of her blouse. She followed her nephew, and around them were the Phantomhive protective services like obedient hunting hounds—Bard, Finnian, Maylene; the Indians, whispering in the smooth exotic cadence of their language; the newest recruit, Doll; the former Earl Phantomhive's favorite watchdogs, Rodney and Graham. They moved in like a pack of wolves, and the further they encroached upon the scene, the louder the commotion on the street became. An amateur gunfight had shattered the eventless afternoon, down by Dmitri's Pavilion.

"The names of these former gang members can be traced to St. Mikael's, and if what you suspect is true, then..."

"_Fuck_," Ciel hissed, and the meeting on-the-go was brought to an end for the moment; the sunlight was hot and bright on his eyes as he emerged from between two crooked storefronts, just a glimpse of the shoddy thoroughfare the brawl had taken place upon. With the rest of the Phantomhive services behind him, he slithered directly into the middle of the crowd. Officers and volunteers were holding the hysterical throngs back, and the air was a cacophony of wails and shouts—demands for answers, demands for peace, threats and promises and shrieks alike. The bodies still lay on the street, blood drying on the cobblestones, and the scent of death and hysteria were on the air.

Her Majesty's right-hand man stood with his blades and guns obvious on his sides. The Michaelis responders circled around him as they spoke.

Ciel couldn't help the rage that burned in him at so much as having to be in the same proximity as those dogs. He thought of the way Lizzy had looked at him with such fear in her eyes when security had barged in to lunch and announced there'd been another big fight. But he managed to sustain at least a shred of civility, as, followed by his men, he made his way forth to speak to Her Majesty's officer. Stepping over bodies, avoiding coagulating blood and ignoring the roar of the public. The sun was blinding in a pale sky. The air was cold. It was a typical November day, and Her Majesty's white-haired manservant, in the midst of the Michaelis responders, caught sight of Ciel and curled into a serpentine smile.

"Oh, the Phantomhives have decided to join us," he cried out, clapping his hands together. Ciel's face pinched in distaste.

"Earl Grey," he returned the greeting. "It's a pleasure. My apologies, though; I was at lunch with a lady."

He could feel glances from the Michaelis family, towering above him, but he refused to acknowledge them beyond the mutual struggle to remain well-mannered in front of the Queen's messenger. He propped his hands on his hips, circling around Earl Grey and surveying the bloodshed. Three young men, slicked-back hair and jackets lined with red braid. Michaelis supporters. Two others, in navy blue with silver buttons. Phantomhive supporters. A few uninvolved citizens, one authority caught in the crossfire, dead hands limp on the cobbles. There was a little girl, wounds obvious as the blood dried through her dress. Her soiled doll lay a few feet from her motionless fingertips, and Ciel swallowed a sickened thought of gratitude that she had fallen face-down.

"This is disgraceful," someone spat from their place inside the circle. Ciel didn't recognize the voice; it was obviously a Michaelis. He glanced up with a vicious scowl, searching out and finding the eyes of Lord Michaelis before just panning the lot of them and hoping to frighten the one who'd complained. In his periphery, the Phantomhive protective services lingered attentively, observing the scene.

"Do we know who opened fire?" Ciel hissed. "Michaelis, or Phantomhive?"

"It was a Phantomhive gang," Earl Grey declared, adjusting the lapels of his white suit. "What we've gathered is that it was a minor scuffle that turned to gunfire, and innocent civilians were caught in between. When officials arrived, the gangs had dispersed. The injured have been collected and taken for medical care." Earl Grey paused briefly, and it was tacit between them all—between any who had eyes to see—that the dead remained, littered so carelessly on the street.

"So," Earl Grey sighed, "families, what do you suggest we do about this, here?"

"What do you mean, what do we do about this?" Lord Michaelis sputtered. "What are we supposed to do, _patrol the streets for you_? That's what officers are for!"

"Agreed," Ciel said, and met Lord Michaelis's eyes for a moment of brief, arbitrary understanding. "He has a point, Earl Grey. What the hell can we do? We can't control the gangs."

"Lead by example," Earl Grey announced with an offhanded shrug. He had always been far too complacent, too high above society to fully care.

"We _already_ lead by example!" Lord Michaelis roared, and some of the surrounding civilians reacted with a murmur of alarm. "What about another set of peace laws? The last was in 1881, but they've fallen to pieces now—"

"Those never work, anyway," Ciel reminded him curtly, and the not-so-jolly old man peered down at him in scrutiny. Ciel returned the stare with mouth in a thin line. His eyes travelled the ranks behind Lord Michaelis again as his thoughts ran. What exactly did the Queen think they could do? There was no possible way to control the gangs in the city, and there was absolutely no way he'd agree to leading by example. Perhaps he could ask Sebastian what he thought about it later that night; he could ask him his point of view, being a simple citizen and all, what he thought was the best way to communicate with the gangs. Perhaps if he could create a solid line of communication to the citizens, Sebastian as their bridge, they could work together as one united force against the Michaelis family instead of inconsistent scattered ideas and savage loyalty, and then he could—

What was Sebastian doing there?

Ciel's stomach dropped, and for just a second or two, he didn't understand what he was seeing. But, yes, that was Sebastian, standing in the midst of the Michaelis responders. The one who had somehow always been facing the opposite direction when Ciel looked over at them. But now that he really looked, he recognized the back of his head. The neck, the shoulders. The voice. He could hear his voice now, just another careful whisper amongst them. He was talking to someone with long, red hair—long enough, red enough, strange enough that Ciel recognized it from the roof of his house the night of the masquerade in October. And as if it were fate, confirming what he already dreaded was true, Sebastian turned to cast a worried glance back at the leaders of the houses and the Queen's messenger, and as subtle as it was, it was also unfortunate enough to be perfectly aligned with Ciel's disbelieving stare.

Ciel noticed the way the shadows of Sebastian's eyes were copper-brown in the sunlight, and he thought it was very attractive. Sebastian's eyes widened if ever so slightly with subdued recognition, and he looked away again just as smoothly, as if nothing had happened. And then a sick, rotten fury began to bubble up from deep within Ciel's chest, a harrowing sense of betrayal, of lies and deceit, and the arguments between Earl Grey and Lord Michaelis didn't matter to him anymore. The solution to this mess didn't matter to him. He withdrew from it. He could only stare, feeling the shock make its way down his body like poison, icy and sickening.

Ciel wanted to vomit.

He felt little again. Little, and stupid, and naïve and abused.

Earl Grey's suit was too white, blinding in the sunlight. Ciel squinted his eyes against it as Earl Grey talked to him, and both he and the Michaelis dogs waited for him to answer, but he hadn't heard. The world was drowned out by the lurching thud of his heart, echoing in his ears. The crowd around the scene pulsed. The air bit his skin, already so cold. Everyone looked at him, waiting, waiting.

His knees shook, and the dead little girl would not stop reaching for her bloody doll.

Ciel turned with a scuff of the heel. He almost tripped over a dead Phantomhive supporter. Rodney reached for him, but Ciel shook him off. Madame Red looked at him a moment, but knew far better and hurried forward to take his place talking to Earl Grey and Lord Michaelis.

Ciel slipped back into the alleys, the roar of the distraught public deafening even between the buildings. Alone, amidst cracked walls and dripping pipes, uneven concrete and rats skittering away from piles of trash. And this, this was far too close to the bad part of town for his comfort. This was where rats scurried and dead dogs floated in the mire and scabbed little children begged for food while their scabbed little mothers bedded for money, and there were gangs of poor men who killed for more, there was filth and disease and desperate impoverished broken souls. Through Lovers' Lane, where the bodies should have been dumped, had the officials not interrupted when they had. And on that crack, his mother had been thrown. He would never forget it, every time he saw that simple, unique jut of broken concrete. _Step on a crack, break your mother's back_—

The undertaker was there. He waddled around with his cart, and he stopped just to watch the way the head of the Phantomhives staggered down through the alley, dazed and detached. Stopped at the crack in the ground that haunted him with the memories, squatted down on shaking legs and held his mouth, trying to muffle the cries he could no longer restrain. Sounds of bitter agony, somewhere raw between despair and rage, a little boy with guns on his back huddled in Lovers' Lane and quivering on his haunches.

The undertaker lifted a hand to his mouth and chuckled behind it.

* * *

_scene V._

* * *

Lizzy winced.

Madame Red dodged the slam of the doors just before she was shut between them, and, just as she had three times already, without another moment's thought, she jerked them open again and stood in the threshold, hands on her hips.

"I've had enough of this!" she roared. Her voice—coarse, intimidating—echoed in the halls of the second floor. Servants cowered around corners, casting apprehensive glances when they were forced to pass the scene on the master wing of the house. Lizzy stood at the nearest turn, with the Indian entertainers behind her whispering in their heathen language. Madame Red's words were hasty and fierce, and the retorts that met them from inside the master bedroom were not much better.

"All I've asked for is to be left alone."

"You've been slinking around the house like death itself, Ciel. I'm sick of it. I'm not asking you to tell me what's going on—"

"Then leave me be."

"It's been _four days_ of this, ever since you stormed off the scene in the Pavilion—"

"Just leave me _be_, auntie!"

"You won't even touch your work or your business."

"I don't _care _about it right now! I refuse to so much as _read_ the names of those filthy dogs!"

"You don't _care_? Are you _ill_? If you're not delirious, you're mad, and I'll be forced to—"

"Please, auntie. I'm just in a foul mood. There's nothing you can do about it, and it's not like you're my nurse or my mother, so just _let me be_."

There, again—the crack of his palms against the door and the rush of wind as he shoved them closed. This time, the movement was interrupted by the smack of Madame Red's hands, catching the heavy doors. Lizzy could see from the corner, hands clasped against her chin, the Earl in his doorway glowering up at his aunt and the red-haired woman returning the murderous scowl as she held the double doors, shining ornate walnut. The Earl seemed to falter for a moment; Lizzy thought about the way he'd been the last few days, after he and the Phantomhive services had rushed out to the streets. Sullen, brusque, agitated, dark eyes sharp on everyone and everything they landed on. He'd made one maid cry. Lizzy had caught her in the hallway after elevenses, trying to weep in secret.

There was a hush in the hallway that lasted perhaps one simple second before it soured in the air, warped into something dangerous—and then Madame Red's nails scraped as her hand left the door in a flash, slapping across her nephew's face.

The sound of skin on skin echoed in the corridor, sharp, and what followed was a deathly silence. Even the eavesdropping servants quieted. The last Lizzy heard before Ciel shrank away into his bedroom with head hung, his aunt following him in and closing the thick doors, was Madame Red's voice, low and menacing:

"_I won't have you acting like such a fool in front of your future fiancée, now get your spoiled ass inside your room so we can talk without the whole house listening in_..."

* * *

_scene VI._

* * *

He felt bruised, all over. Inside, and out, like he had when his father had disapproved of something and took him into his den for _a talk_. Any other time, Ciel couldn't have felt more loved—his father's kind smile and deep eyes, his mother's soft hands and gentle voice—but when the doors to the big den closed and his father greeted him from in front of the fire with fingers laced on his knee, Ciel tried to hold his breath until it was over and everyone was loving again. _Watschen_, his father had explained once, and that was the German in the Phantomhive blood.

He knew that his aunt had been able to see the injured pride, the subdued rage burning in his eyes after she'd slapped him, but a childhood of _talks_ with his father had taught him that, even as the Earl now, elders still dominated at times. And his ego ached just like his cheek, and he remembered the way his head would spin after a number of chastising smacks in his father's den.

_In front of your future fiancée_, she'd said, like he'd agreed to the engagement already. Alone in his room, Madame Red long gone and their talk—for it had really been a talk, not like the ones of his childhood—still sizzling in the air, hanging over him like a fever, he paced the carpet at the foot of his bed with fingers rubbing at his eyes. He could hear the water in the pipes, hidden somewhere in the walls, the tick of the giltwood clock on the mantle, and the soft whisper of his bare feet in the white fur of the rug.

A Michaelis.

_A damn Michaelis_.

He just couldn't get over it. He was sick with it; his body ached with it. The betrayal, the sting of something akin to abandonment. It just wasn't fair. And the fury, the shame at being deceived, and the disgust that his mouth had been on that of a Michaelis—

And yet, he was angry on the surface level—yes, so seething that he shook—but he couldn't help but feel the weight of despair, the chastened pain. Because he'd been fond of Sebastian. He'd been _letting_ himself be fond of Sebastian. And the selfish, putrid bastard had just yanked all of that out of his grasp again, had reminded him of the shame and disgust that had _killed_ him a few years ago, to be used and discarded, and it _hurt_.

He had duties. He was the heir of the Phantomhive family. He had responsibilities that did not belong to his aunt, his uncle, his cousins, or his grandmother. He was Ciel Phantomhive, potentially engaged to Elizabeth Middleford, and he was nobility, and of course he was not given the freedom to seek happiness on his own because he lived for the Phantomhive name, and that was it. That was the ball and chain.

But he couldn't say that to Madame Red; he just couldn't. All he'd been able to do was sit on his bed and stare at his feet while she reminded him of his place, of his reputation, of his _responsibilities_. Sometimes people as important as he could not afford to have a time of foul moods, she'd told him. There was too much to take care of, and if he wasn't capable of accepting these responsibilities as a young man still plagued by the erratic moods of adolescence, well, something might have to be done about that.

Alone in the room now, Ciel climbed onto the foot of his bed and sat cross-legged, dropping his face to his hands and struggling to remain in control of his emotions. He'd never had trouble with them before, not after coming back home two years ago; but this _hurt_. No matter where his mind was, it always ended up coming back around to _Sebastian_. Sebastian, a Michaelis. And it _hurt_. It hurt deep in his chest, heart hot and chest tight with anguish. He clenched his teeth, fingers fisting in his hair as he tried to take even breaths, feeling his skin heat up and his throat tightening, sore and scratchy.

The double doors to the balcony were slightly ajar, and it was cold. Ciel slid off the bed, trudging over to close them—but he stopped, picking up on the scent of cloves. The aroma was sweet and pungent, and after shaking off the initial reaction of warm recognition, he shoved out onto the balcony and leaned over the edge, stating tersely:

"You're a damn fool, Sebastian."

He stood with one hand on the vine-covered lattice, the other holding a freshly lit black cigarette to his lips, and from where he stared up at Ciel from the ground below, Sebastian certainly didn't deny that he was a fool. He smoked the cigarette a moment, then put it out on the lattice and slipped the unsmoked half of it into his pocket. His brow knotted. Ciel regarded him from above with rage far too easy to offer.

"I don't want you here," he hissed.

"I don't believe you," Sebastian returned, coldly.

"You're a Michaelis. I despise you." The November air rustled his clothes, and Ciel clenched his teeth against a shiver, draping his arms over the balustrade of the balcony. "I should have upped security. I can't believe I failed to remember that something as dirty as you would come sneaking around again. I'm so stupid."

"Hey," Sebastian countered briskly, "maybe you didn't up security because you _wanted _something as dirty as me to come sneaking around again. Sir, don't forget you've been _kissing_ something as dirty as me." He grasped the lattice with both hands again. He didn't smile, a spark of something predatory and tenacious somewhere in his dark eyes. He had no intentions of leaving. Ciel scoffed.

"Please, I've already vomited and confessed twice because of such filth."

"You've been _talking_ to something as dirty as me," Sebastian added, effortlessly evading Ciel's insults. "You can't deny it," he whispered, and started to climb as easily as he had many nights in the last week or two. "Ciel—my lord—Earl Phantomhive, I'm just going to explain."

"What is there to explain? I've been exploited. I've been used. You're a demon. I'm going to call security. Better yet, I'm going to shoot you myself." Ciel scowled, planting both hands on the stone banister. "_Why are you still climbing up here_? You're so certain you're going to explain! You didn't even ask, you just assumed I'd listen! Well, I won't, and my gun is right—"

He hunched away as Sebastian made it to the top of the balcony, and he recoiled even more as he saw the look in his eyes—confusing eyes, eyes that could be soft in one moment and sly in the next, but in that breath, they were rotting with dangerous guilt. Ciel swallowed. His hands shook. Sebastian hung over the side of the balcony, looking apathetic and cold in his testimony.

"So I'm not just a gunslinger," he divulged. "I'm the son of Lord Michaelis. But I can assure you, that's the only lie I've given. Everything else has been the truth—I've been trained as a gunslinger, but it's not my _chosen_ profession. I simply want to do as _I _please, but I'm tied down. _I _wanted to be talking with you, to be visiting with you. That's the truth, my lord. This—it has nothing to do with my family. You can believe that, right?"

"I don't know what to believe anymore," Ciel retorted, knowing he was being difficult—knowing that, perhaps, all this needed was a calm, mature talking-through. But he couldn't help it. "All I know is you're associated with the Michaelis family, and I hate you—"

"I trust that," Sebastian interrupted, sighing as if bored. Ciel snorted at his cocky indifference. "I know very well how you feel about the Michaelis family. But just believe me—ask me to do anything. I'll become an outcast, I'll extricate myself from my family, I'll be only who you want me to be. You know as well as I do that I don't really hold influence anywhere, so who would mourn my disappearance?"

"Sebastian. You lied to me."

Sebastian's face seemed to change, seemed to curdle with more guilt, and Ciel wondered if there was something in his own eyes that he didn't know he was saying to the young man. He swallowed, looking down at his feet. "You lied to me many times," he murmured, then turned and moved back into his room. Sebastian gawked after him, prepared to climb up and follow him into the room, but relaxed again when Ciel returned to the balcony with his father's old smoking jacket. He slipped his arms into it, hugged it closed. The stone was like ice on his feet.

"This is me, acting on what I want," Sebastian husked, and once more he was elegant, charming, as if trying to reel Ciel back in. He frowned, lashes lowered on somber eyes; he straightened up, holding the stone balustrade of the balcony. Ciel wondered how long he'd lain awake rehearsing this, how long he'd fretted over this confrontation. The night air moved hair from Sebastian's face, his collar along his neck. Ciel couldn't help but shiver at the sight of it, a natural reaction.

"I want you," Sebastian declared. "Mind, body, and soul. Your everything, including your hatred, and your revenge, and if that gets me disowned—so be it. If you decide to hate me, anyway, shoot me right here—like you said you would—and I'll never haunt you again. But, you see... It's undeniable, this hunger. It has been since the moment I laid eyes on you in your party clothes and mask. Maybe even before that."

_Even before that. _Ciel looked up quickly, perplexed. The words piqued his curiosity in the back of his mind, but slid off his immediate concern because they didn't matter right now. "I have so much hate, I don't know if you understand that," Ciel edged through clenched teeth. "And I absolutely _despise_ myself for feeling this way about you."

There was a moment of hesitation, precarious and heavy. Sebastian stared. Ciel fumbled with the sleeves of the old jacket, and then finally conceded—for the moment. He slipped forward to the edge of the balcony and let his head hang against Sebastian's chest. He could feel the ridge of his holster, the beat of his heart beneath his militia jacket—could feel his own, throbbing in his ears. Every emotion rattled through him once more, all collected in a line. The shock, the distress, the rage, the disgust, the fear, the pain. Sebastian curled in around him, one arm winding about his shoulders and pulling him closer. And Ciel didn't know where it came from, or how it broke through the obstinacy of his anger and his pride, but he lifted his head and touched Sebastian's cheeks—met his eyes, and then his mouth in a kiss.

"You make me so very nervous," he whispered as their lips broke apart, a breath between them and honest eyes, a distraught frown, flickering up to meet Sebastian's heated stare. His brow knotted, and he licked the taste of Sebastian off the corner of his mouth. Sebastian's arm tightened around him, as did his fingers on Sebastian's face, and there was nothing he could do about the way this felt, because there was no way anything else would be able to win against this natural inclination. There was no denying this, right or wrong. It was simply there, and irrefutable.

He was _content_ in Sebastian's grip, with his nose in his neck and his kisses on his skin, head to the side and eyes shut as the November night slithered around them.

"I hope people hate you, because I can't," Ciel husked, his throat raw with emotion and his voice light, fragile, boyish even in his coldest of honesty. Ciel's arms snaked tentatively about Sebastian's sides and he pulled him closer. "I'm livid, don't doubt it, but I can't hate you. I hope your _family _despises you, but don't ever leave me. Just don't. I wouldn't be able to stand it."

Sebastian was quiet, buried into his neck. Warm, present. His lips were a soft tickle behind his ear, and Ciel's fingers threaded into his hair.

Quietly, Sebastian whispered, "_Now_ I swear by the moon."

* * *

_Although I joy in thee, I have no joy in this contract tonight. It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, too like the lightning...which doth cease to be ere one can say, "It lightens."_

Juliet Capulet.

* * *

_The curtain rises on Act III shortly._


	6. act III: scenes I and II

**rooks and romanticide.**

**Disclaimers: I do not own.**

**Rating/Warning: AU; M for this chapter; graphic content such as violence, child abuse, child prostitution, recreational substance use references, explicit scenes and mature themes. **

* * *

_act III: reminisce, regret._

_scenes i and ii._

* * *

_scene I._

* * *

The only child to the Earl of Phantomhive was a pampered boy. He was a beautiful baby, for one, and when he was christened, he was drowned in more _ooh_s and _ahh_s than holy water. He grew amongst butlers and maids who liked to wink at him and ruffle his hair in the hallways, a nursemaid who somehow caught up with him whenever he wandered off, tutors who reveled in how he soaked up his lessons just in time for playtime and yet always remembered what he'd learned the next day, a gossiping public outside the gates of the manor or flooding the halls during banquets and parties, members of the Phantomhive household who smoked cigars and pipes in the library and called him _Liebling_, and a mother and father who held their chins high and wore expensive clothes and sat to either side of him at the long walnut dining table.

His father was kind and intelligent, quiet and thoughtful. He was always smiling, but behind every smile was deep contemplation in his eyes. He had important business meetings that stuffed his schedule near to overflowing, and yet when Ciel would pass him in the halls and smile, his dad would always have time to swing him up to his shoulders for a moment or two of _How are you, babe?_ and _I hope you're being a good boy _before returning him to Hannah and hurrying on to his office again. And Ciel would watch him with a shy little understanding that his father was _important_, and that made him _important_, too. That made him proud.

His mother was beautiful and soft in every way, and sometimes she would join him in his playroom and make voices for his stuffed animals and wooden soldiers while the nursemaid sat blushing in the corner. Sometimes she would join him outside, in the garden, and name off different flowers and what they symbolized. Sometimes she'd just sit in her drawing room and brush her long hair, staring out the window, and Ciel liked to sit on her lap while she did that because it made him feel like he was part of her deep, listless thoughts, the ones that took her away from the world for a time. He liked the way her skin smelled, sweet like powder and perfumes. The way her pretty gowns with the blue buttons and the Phantomhive crest felt, cameo at her neck, velvet and satin and folds of a cashmere blouse. She had thin hands with clean nails and jutting wrist bones, and Ciel liked the way they felt when they ran through his hair.

He had lots of toys. He had lots of clothes. He got every snack he asked for, sneaking around the kitchen. The manor was a wide world to explore. Sebastian, his big dog, was like a living stuffed animal to cuddle with. When he was scared at night, his mom and dad let him tiptoe into their room and join them in their monstrous four-poster bed, his father a wall of security on one side and his mother like a blonde, blue-eyed guardian angel on the other, running her fingers through his hair. The dog would follow him, and sleep at their feet.

They went to the church in Molching Court on holidays and feast days, with the other high class people. When they walked on the streets, the Phantomhive protective services were like a wall around them. Ciel sometimes liked to peek between their legs, out at the regular people on the streets, but his Uncle Clause would laugh and pat his head and push him back between his mother and father.

He had one friend to play with, a boy with the name Trancy—but when he was almost eight, the Trancy family stopped coming for tea every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, and Ciel heard his mother and father fighting in his father's den, and he wondered if anybody knew that he saw the way his mother was crying as she stormed back to her boudoir and slammed the doors shut.

The Indians came on his eighth birthday, and they were entertainers. Ciel had been caught so rapt in their antics and the sinful look of foreign culture about them that he'd forgotten about his crème caramel, and just stared. The one with violet hair was just a little bit older than him, and although many of his father's friends and members of the house whispered in disapproval of Ciel's urgent wish to have the Indians be his friends now that the Trancy boy was gone, his dad smiled and held him up on his shoulder and announced they'd get a room on the second floor, by the servants' quarters.

By the time he was ten, the only child of the Phantomhives was well-versed in the history of the feud, the current (albeit, precarious) peace laws, and the devilry of the filthy Michaelis family (for stealing the Trancy family from their life, for example), just as well-learned as he was in reading, writing, linguistics, arithmetic, and other histories. The tutor, Mr. Quinn, was cracking out the texts on sciences and theology; Mrs. Rodney was moving from German to Latin to French; Miss Willford had announced he was almost a prodigy in the elementary lessons of violin and piano, but that his painting could use a little practice; and Mr. Ashton mentioned a junior fencing competition coming up in the winter. Ciel spent afternoons playing in the garden with the Indians, practicing his schoolwork, loitering the kitchen for a snack or two, accompanying Madame Red and the others of the Phantomhive protection services on an excursion now and again to expose him to the grave reality of the world outside the manor, and his father had taught him how to work with a revolver and pistol. He joined his mother in her boudoir with a book after dinner, and he liked eavesdropping on his father's meetings. There were occasional _talks_ in his father's den, and now that he was older, he didn't sit on his mother's lap when she grew wistful; he lingered in the corner of the room, feeling the sadness on the air and not understanding what it was for. The dog's fur was always warm and soft between his toes, and its wet nose woke him up in the mornings just before the servants entered, pressed to his cheek.

Ciel Phantomhive was not lacking for anything. But perhaps that was just fate waiting for the right moment to tip things over.

* * *

The sky was the color of a sick person's eyes, gray and dingy. The rain was drizzling, and his breath hung in the air like clouds of life escaping him with every gasp. He almost stepped on his father's body, took his rings and tripped in a dirty puddle, smudging his palms and knees with gritty mud. It was cold, and he hadn't put on gloves or a scarf. Just his jacket, his shoes. He hadn't even fastened the buttons on his coat, because he'd been too scared. Too lost. Too frantic. His voice fell from the back of his throat in the beginnings of a cry, but no tears were there—those were just sporadic rain drops, spitting down on him as if his life were as worthless as this puddle he'd fallen in. He couldn't cry. He thought, maybe he should feel the pain tightening in his throat like it always had when he'd cried before, but everything was numb. He walked, and he didn't even feel the steps as he took them. He ambled through the wet shadows of Lovers' Lane, dripping and shivering and in a daze.

"Hey—"

Ciel stopped, blinked away a few drops of rain gathering on the tips of his eyelashes and looked to the corner of Lovers' Lane. There was a dilapidated outside staircase leading up the dirty wall to a door completely boarded up, and below it was a pile of junk from every corner of life. Just garbage, a haven for street urchins and street rats alike, and smiling cordially beneath a crooked curtain of Bohemian fleur-de-lis and tassels hanging from the rusty landing and its laundry lines above, was a young man who looked like a clown. A skeleton clown. Fiery red hair, markings painted on his face. Behind him were a few others, and they looked too clean—too healthy—too well-dressed and proud to be ragamuffins on the street.

"_Malchik malenky_," the skeleton clown said, and wiggled his fingers where his open hands hung in the air. Ciel fidgeted. That wasn't a language he knew. He stared, a little perplexed. He thought about his father, his uncle, his aunt, his teachers—telling him to always be aware and attentive, especially as a Phantomhive.

"Come here," the skeleton clown urged again, and his smile softened. Welcoming. Warm. Ciel inched over a few steps, until the landings of the stairs and broken balconies above sheltered him from the misting rain. "Don't be scared," the young man said, leaning out from the shadows of the alley. A pipe dripped above his head. Ciel thought the way his hair was pinned out of his face, gathered in a ponytail, was very handsome. Like a character from the romance novels his nursemaid liked to read. Behind the skeleton clown, the other few young men shifted in impatience. He smiled down at Ciel where Ciel stopped short before him.

"Your mommy and daddy wanted you to come with us if anything ever happened to them. They said so, themselves. So you wouldn't be alone."

"I'm alone," Ciel whispered, as if the fact was a lesson in need of memorization, but it was paper-thin and barely audible. The skeleton clown snaked an arm around his shoulders and ruffled his hair with the other hand, and Ciel moved forward into the young man's reeling arm, let him gather him up. The skeleton clown and his friends wore red and black, and Ciel knew those weren't his family colors, but all the colors seemed to be running together into a mess of dirty gray and too, too bright whites.

"We'll take care of you, I promise, _miliya_." The young clown man hoisted him up in the crook of one arm, and Ciel stared over his shoulder at the others. They didn't look like people his parents would have liked. They had the feel about them that the Phantomhive protective services did—good at lying and good at fighting. Rough and tumble and somehow refined. One of them winked at him. Ciel heard hidden holsters creaking as the skeleton clown turned and ducked under the Bohemian curtain, and, cradled in the skeleton clown's arms with his nose pressed into his neck, Ciel went with them out of the alley and left his parents' bodies in the puddles in Lovers' Lane for the undertaker to pick up.

* * *

In a dusty corner of the rooms beneath St. Mikael's Church on Windsor, there was a secret. Better than the drugs hidden in statues of Mary, better than the whispered words in the confessionals.

The skeleton clown and the others took him to an apartment on Flynn Street. They sat in a dirty kitchen drinking coffee together and discussing their own business, taking turns checking on the _malchik malenky_ sitting in the front room reading the books they offered and eating the soup and bread they'd given. They waited until dark, changed Ciel's clothes, paused to marvel over his discolored eye, then gave him a coat and a cap to wear as they made their way to Windsor Avenue, Michaelis territory, where St. Mikael's Church held its secrets.

There was a hidden door in the sanctuary, and beyond it, a secret hall where the next concealed entrance was a trap door in the floorboards. Father Kelvin was a genius, gifted in some areas and terribly bankrupt in others, but Ciel didn't quite grasp that yet. It took him a good month to have that epiphany.

The skeleton clown held his hand as they made their way through the secret corridors and down below the church, and Ciel clung to him as the first real fear began to set in. It was sharp and cold, but not yet desperate panic. _My parents are dead_, he kept thinking. _Why did they give me to these people? _was the thought that followed. He tried to stay calm, but his breath hitched in his throat and his clammy fingers shook in the skeleton clown's. The skeleton clown tried to comfort him, and as they emerged from the secret hallway into an underground haven, he even crouched down to eye-level with him and gave him a reassuring wink and a kiss on the ear.

"Joker's already getting attached," one of the others said, and Ciel blushed and clung to _Joker's_ hand more tightly. But childish awe managed to distract from fear for at least a while, eyes exploring every nook and cranny of the basement rooms. Ornamented ceilings, gilded details on the wall panels, collections of gold-rimmed velvet furniture and giltwood paintings and gold-faced urns, vases of plants and flowers. Hallways that branched off in every direction. A crucifix, sitting above a bowl of holy water and rose petals. The basement air was chilly. The others dispersed and _Joker_ led him off to the right, where the brightly lit hallway led to big doors with brass knockers. Vicious-looking lion faces, snarling and pierced with golden rings. _Joker_ knocked with them, thrice.

It was Father Kelvin's office, and he was jubilant as _Joker_ eased Ciel into the room. He babbled about something or another, a blessing, a score, a _perfect scheme_, but all Ciel could think was that something was just _off_ with the Father, and there was nothing he could do about it. The reality finally set in when Father Kelvin had him strip the borrowed clothes and stand in front of his desk for examination, and Ciel sat down naked on the lush carpet and started to cry because his parents were dead and they'd handed him over to this weird, weird man. Ciel could shoot a gun, he could speak Latin, he could ace all of his studies and play Schubert on the violin, but he couldn't understand why his parents would abandon him like this. His aunt was at home. His uncle, his grandma, his grandpa. And his cousins and other family outside New London. So why had they chosen Father Kelvin?

They were dead. Somebody had shot them, and Ciel didn't know who it had been. _Joker_ fetched the clothes Father Kelvin called for, and Ciel put them on and let _Joker_ take his family rings from his fingers and move him to a bedroom down a number of halls with eight thin beds cramped together. _Joker_ ruffled his hair and smiled kindly and said, "This is your room, now. You get the bed over here."

"I'm not here because my parents set it up," Ciel murmured, staring at the plain bed with less of a question and more of a bleak acceptance. The skeleton clown looked at him with a bitter shrug.

"No," he said, without even sugarcoating it. "_Rabota_."

* * *

_Malchik malenky _meant "little boy". Ciel learned that after a while, just like _miliya _meant "darling" and _malysh_ meant "baby", and there were no _bandershas_ to Father Kelvin's gentleman's club, just _kots_.

_Rabota _meant "work".

* * *

There was a kind of routine about working at Father Kelvin's, and because he was a Phantomhive, Ciel got the better end of the stick. Cleaner room, cleaner clothes, hotter meals. Father Kelvin's had a system, like many other brothels did. There was a catalog of young children to choose from, prices ranging accordingly—girls and boys; poor, common, and aristocracy; younger and older; virgin or experienced; tiny or big; loud and quiet. There was a labyrinth of rooms beneath St. Mikael's. Some were filled with little cots for the children to sleep; some were lavish bedrooms where they met with clients; one was a washroom and another the lounge where Father Kelvin liked to read to them from the Bible on Sunday nights.

The routine was simple. Either one worked rotation in the rooms below St. Mikael's, or went with a group of others and one of Kelvin's helpers to a hotel on Devereaux, in the grungier parts of the city, to meet with clients there. There were weekly baths and "check-ups", which was really just code for Father Kelvin taking turns with each of them to decide if they were working well enough or not. He had favorites, and it was clear. Ciel discovered quickly that he was one of them.

They ate meals in the big lounge, with the old couches and divans, and upholstered armchairs and boxes of secondhand toys in the corner. If they disobeyed or talked badly, they were beaten. If a client wasn't pleased, they were beaten. If they tried to run away, they were beaten and locked in time-out for hours.

Some of them, Ciel learned, were there because their parents took some of the profit they earned. And that, somehow, made him the saddest. He was there because his parents had been killed, and he knew for sure now that his mother and father would never have put him in this place under any circumstances, but to be given up to Father Kelvin intentionally? It made his heart hurt, but he tried to ignore it because there was no room for feelings while working for Father Kelvin.

His first client paid a hefty sum—because he wanted a virgin, and he wanted one with clean blood. And a Phantomhive it was, the morning after _Joker_ had delivered him to his new room. Right after breakfast, in one of the big red rooms in the working hall, with the lounge at one end and the threshold leading back up to the church at the other.

The room was extravagant. For the first few minutes after one of Father Kelvin's men had directed him into it and closed the door, Ciel simply explored. Ran his fingers on the festooned walls, felt the smooth floorboards beneath his toes; touched the polished wood of the vanity table and the smooth, clean surface of its mirror; smelled the flowers on the bedside table and lay on the maroon divan, rubbing his face on the soft fabrics and pressing his nose to the gold frame. And the bed—the bed was expensive, wide and ornate, thin red sheets and silk and velvet scarlet comforters, crimson pillows with black embroidery, and of course the burgundy curtains falling from the ceiling around it, and on this bed perfect for a noble boy was where Ciel bounced excitedly, feeling the bedding beneath his knees, when his first client walked in.

Ciel gawked, eyes wide and face flushing just another shade of red where he met the man's eyes over his shoulders, and he was frozen in place on his hands and knees on the bed as his client walked in and closed the door. He began to lay down his things on the divan—his hat, his coat, his folio case. He viewed Ciel from the divan, where Ciel had backed up against the headboard of the bed and held his knees to his chest, and he smiled a charming smile and Ciel thought, _Well, he looks kind. _

Nobody had briefed him on what kind of _rabota_ he'd be doing, but when the man kicked off his shoes and began to unfasten his pants, Ciel knew with a bitter kind of acuity, just a primal knowledge at the back of his head that might have been there all along and simply required the right trigger to elicit its presence. For some children, that trigger was puberty. For Ciel, it was the mattress shifting beneath him as his first client crawled onto the scarlet bed with him.

_Well, he looks kind_, Ciel thought to himself again, observing the soft light in the gentleman's eyes and his clean-shaven cheeks, the smell of his cologne and the way he looked well-raised in the very least, someone who might live in a section of New London that wasn't too shabby at all. And Ciel tried to bridge the gap between them, gave him a smile that seemed to waver on his lips, and then the well-raised, kind gentleman grabbed his ankle and yanked him down from the headboard, scattering the pillows around him. Ciel uttered a startled gasp, eyes widening, and before he knew it, the well-raised, kind gentleman was touching his face—his neck—popping the buttons on his shirt open and swirling his fingertips on his stomach, down between his hips, and Ciel's knuckles shook where he clutched onto the blankets and held his breath as his first client fondled him on the red blankets.

There was nothing much more about the man that was well-raised and kind as soon as he had Ciel in his grasp. He touched him, he guided Ciel's hand between his own legs, he squeezed Ciel tight to his chest and rubbed all over him, and his breath was hot and heavy on his skin and his noises of delight were horrifying in Ciel's ear. Touching, groping, moaning, yanking off clothing and ravaging the naked skin beneath, shoulders twitching and lashes fluttering when Ciel started crying and squirming in strained discomfort. But it didn't seem to matter how much he cried, how much he tried to hold his breath, because the gentleman seemed to enjoy it—kept glancing at him over and over, as if he wanted to see his face. Smashed to the bed, and the pain when the gentleman finally got around to the _sex _was indescribable. Hot and stiff, intrusive, ripping into him and throbbing somewhere uncomfortable behind his stomach, something prodding at his tailbone from the inside out. And Ciel had the understanding that if he tried to get away, he'd be in trouble, so he screamed, because it was scary and it hurt and that was all he could do. He moved, trying to ease the sensation, but the more he moved, the more the gentleman moved, following him, and the more he moved the deeper he drove onwards, and anything _well-raised_ and _kind_ about his first client had been a sham, Ciel realized, in the heat of the disheveled bedding and listening to the coarse demands of _Yes, keep that up_ and _Good, boy_ and _Ohh, delicious_. Animalistic, demented, a monster, and Ciel had never imagined that this was what life outside of his home was like and all he wanted was to be back in his bed with his dog at his feet and his family—

His first client took forty minutes from the moment he walked in the door to the moment he left, fully dressed and satisfied, face still red and eyes glazed over with the residual high, and Ciel huddled in the blankets and couldn't cry anymore because he'd lost his voice. So he'd just tried to stop shaking, and wondered about the aching between his thighs, and the slime in the sheets, and the way his insides felt ripped to shreds. He couldn't move without sparking some shred of pain, down his legs, up his back. One of Father Kelvin's men—one that had accompanied _Joker_ the day before—poked his head into the room, looked around, found him in the blankets and said, "Up, boy. Get up. Make the room presentable. Your next client is coming in an hour."

* * *

Ciel worked with the same passion as he'd played and learned, back at the manor when life had been simple—because there was a time and place for hating the thing called God and for letting the bad feelings take over, and that time and place was late at night in bed with body aching and mouth dry, unless he wanted to be beaten. He kept the rooms assigned to him nice and clean, and tried his best to please each client. Welcomed them, waiting amongst red pillows or hotel blankets, wiggling his toes in the sheets and smiling inviting smiles, greeting them from the bed or on the sofa with his shirt off one shoulder and anticipation in his eyes, because faking it was easier than fighting it, and after a while he knew just how to handle each of the different types of guilty men utilizing Father Kelvin's escape from morality.

There were many ways to say it. He fucked. He bedded. He played backgammon and gave lip, knocked, and ground. Sometimes the others called clients _Corinthians_, and a few of them called him a _toffer_. He gave favors with his fingers or his mouth. He stood and smiled, little naked body and all its bony slopes and subtle curves, the staircase of his spine, the xylophone of his ribs. He let the clients ravish him to their liking. He kissed men and women alike, and somehow the rare female clients were crazier than the men—chaste little pecks on the knuckles and the nose, and he let them explore his commodities with their grown-up hands. He screamed, because they liked it when he screamed and cried and begged for mercy, and sometimes he pretended, but sometimes it was real (usually when the bigger men visited). He put on shows with the others when Father Kelvin assigned it—kissing the other boys and girls and tangling up with them as the men gathered uttered sighs and murmurs of pleasure, and clapped their hands and groaned in delight. He played games, anything to get the client satisfied enough to leave. For one man, he barked like a dog. Some regulars brought him candy and treats. He shared those presents with the boys in his room.

The expertise didn't come right away, of course. The first month, it was hard. He felt alone and ashamed and scared. His body hurt. His heart hurt. The image of his parents in Lovers' Lane, of Sebastian lying mutilated in the vestibule and the house empty and filled with the sour air of panic—those things haunted him in the night, and whatever was left of his pride exited in his tears and he winced as he crawled into bed with the oldest boy in the room, who welcomed him like a brother. He was listless with the subdued shock, the repressed grief. He was numb, but cold with disgust as he gradually got used to the routine. Get up in the morning, wash off, get dressed, eat breakfast and smile and laugh with the others, a morning dose of innocence that would get them through the day. At first, it was impossible to join them in their nonchalance, but eventually Ciel gave in to it. And then it was time to work.

He hadn't accepted the situation as fact by the second month, either. It was just a dilemma, an obstacle he had to get around. How, he wasn't certain. After the first few weeks, a stony kind of pride began to grow again in his chest, at being the only real _nobility_ there, at being the _first choice _for some clients, at being one of Father Kelvin's _favorites_. A few times, _Joker _had even stopped by, slithering into the red sheets with him. And Ciel knew that he was higher than the dirty-nosed boys and girls who were there because their families were destitute, and he was higher even than the ones who had been kidnapped or the common-class ones who did what they had to. He was Ciel Phantomhive, he was good in bed, and he was alive.

By the third month, the routine was boring. He'd thought long and hard about everything, and there were no real answers to be found under St. Mikael's. He'd come to dismal understandings. He was done with it all. Ciel Phantomhive had grown up, he was over his nightmares, and he was ready to start finding answers.

* * *

For one, _How did a boy escape Father Kelvin's? _

Ciel found the answer one morning in late March.

Gunshots ripped through the pretty Russian ceiling of Father Kelvin's hidden gentleman's club, but they were not aimed at anyone. Boys and girls had scattered, taking shelter in red velvet rooms. Voices rose, coarse and roaring. There was an argument, between Father Kelvin and one of his men, one of the men who had been with _Joker_ three months ago in Lovers' Lane.

Ciel sat in Father Kelvin's office, primly, on the divan in the corner of the room. Father Kelvin had been about to start a weekly check-up with him, when one of his men—Wolfe, if Ciel had heard correctly in the last few weeks—started ranting and raving in the hallways, yelling about how authorities were snub-nosed bastards and someone had lost the assignment book and clients were waiting but they didn't know who went to what room anymore, and about how Kelvin was a worthless, brainless _piece of shit_.

Father Kelvin had blinked down at Ciel where he stared back up at him, shirt unbuttoned and cool air dusting his bare chest, and then Father Kelvin had heaved a defeated sigh and patted Ciel's upper leg as he said, "I'll be right back, _malysh_."

They were yelling about the bust that had happened in Yekaterinburg, a district outside of New London. Ciel swung his legs, examining the tassels and buttons on the couch in boredom. More gunshots. He jumped, but wasn't really scared. More yelling, this time interspersed with bouts of that foreign language they liked to speak. Something coarse and sharp, similar to the German he knew but more intimidating. He sat alone in Father Kelvin's office for a few more moments, before sliding off the couch and moving over to the man's desk, searching the lower drawers for a snack.

He found his father's rings, and that was when Ciel's apathy shattered.

He looked up at the sound of more incoherent yelling, some thuds and some screaming, and later on from that day, he'd look back on that moment and think of it bitterly as the moment of tragic clarity that the Phantomhive in his blood reawakened.

Ciel grabbed his father's rings and fastened his pants again, so they wouldn't fall down. He didn't even take the chance to peek around the corners and see if the coast was clear; that would waste too much vital time. Wolfe and Father Kelvin were fighting, and probably with many others now. This was an opportunity he'd never get again. Nobody was paying heed to the children. Nobody would see him. This was his chance. Something instinctual hissed in the back of his mind: _Now. Now. Now._

His bare feet slapped on expensive floorboards as he sped out of the office and down the winding halls. He stepped on some pieces of ceiling that had been broken by bullets, almost tripped on a painting thrown from the wall. There were shouts, slamming doors, and the echo of someone's enraged howl and voices from a room some of the children hid in. His breath ripped in and out of his chest, hot with urgency, and his feet pounded on the floor as Ciel ran from Father Kelvin's.

Out of the labyrinth of the gentleman's club beneath St. Mikael's, down the dim corridor and up into the secret hall behind the sanctuary, out, out of the church, the cobblestones biting at his feet as he ran through New London. He didn't stop until he was outside the gates of the Phantomhive manor, didn't even remember the surroundings he'd passed on his way, and as the guards rushed the iron-wrought gates in shock, Ciel opened up his hand and found that his father's rings had left deep imprints in the skin of his palm and fingers.

He was Ciel Phantomhive, he was an orphan, he was good in bed, he was alive, and in March of 1887, he was home again.

* * *

_scene II._

* * *

There was movement in the room. The rustle of curtains as they were opened on the balcony doors, light spilling into the room and bleeding through his closed eyes. Ciel grimaced, burying deeper into his pillows. Cool morning air tickled his cheeks. He shifted in his blankets, curling in on the pocket of warmth sleep had created. His head hurt. He didn't want to get up. What day was it? The first of December. The night before, Sebastian had followed him into his room and they'd sat by the hearth, poking the fire and exchanging whispers as calm and comfortable as friends. Which was what they were, really, friends both platonic and romantic, and it was strange to think of it that way, but it was true.

Maybe Sebastian had never left. Ciel smiled, as the morning air brushed his eyelids. Maybe Sebastian was the one moving around, parting the curtains, opening the balcony. Was he leaving? He'd be seen, the fool. Ciel's smile broadened. He tried to see if he could smell Sebastian on his pillow. What did he smell like? Clean hair, sweet skin, cloves and cologne. Footsteps, moving across the bedroom, muted by the white fur of the rug.

Ciel opened his eyes, and immediately his smile fell. He didn't frown, but a shadow of disappointment drifted over his face as he watched the maid cross his room again, carrying his clothes for the day, stirring the coke in the hearth. Not Sebastian. He'd left in the night, like the lying sneak he was.

"Good morning, my lord," the maid said, noticing his stare.

"...Morning," he grumbled in return, and hid his face in his pillow again.

* * *

_O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies in the small orb of one particular tear._

William Shakespeare.

* * *

_Act III will resume shortly._


	7. act III: scenes III, IV, and V

**rooks and romanticide.**

**Disclaimers: I do not own.**

**Ratings/Warnings: ****AU, T+; graphic content such as violence, child abuse, child prostitution, recreational substance use references, explicit scenes and mature themes.**

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* * *

_

act III: reminisce, regret.

_scenes iii, iv, and v._

* * *

_scene III._

* * *

"Taking your coffee in the garden, I see."

Sebastian looked over his shoulder, scarves and fur of his collar soft on his face. His father stood behind him, smiling bright and cheery. His graying hair fell loose about gentle, liver spotted jowls. He had his walking stick, clutched in old fingers that trembled this morning. His many jewels and rings looked as if they might cut off his circulation, and folds of maroon and black garments were sharp in the morning fog. His breath hung on the air as his son's did, and Sebastian licked the taste of coffee off his lips and offered a polite smile to his father.

"_Dobroe utro_," he murmured. _Good morning_. "I'm sorry, did you want me at the table for breakfast?"

His father waved a hand dismissively as he moved up off the flagstone to the patio. Sebastian reached over to pull the chair out for him, but his father waved his hand away, frowning. He eased down into the chair with a loud sigh. Crow's feet branched from his eyes. Sebastian frowned again, deeply. He lifted his coffee to his lips and glanced away, because sometimes he didn't like seeing Lord Michaelis on the days he felt his oldest.

There was a small silence, comfortable. Lord Michaelis liked to talk. His son didn't. They both understood each other for it. The morning fog rolled along the Michaelis grounds, and the orchards and trees were gray in the pale light. Inside the grand house, people moved; outside, it was as if the world was still waking. Birds chirped somewhere, hesitantly.

"You were out late last night," his father declared, sighing again. He took a scone from his son's plate. Sebastian smiled faintly, pushing his dish over to his father.

"I was," he confirmed. "Met with a friend and sat talking by the fire all night."

"My son, the romantic." Even Lord Michaelis's chuckle was deafening; it echoed around the vast patio, and from the few fountains, birds scattered. _My son, the romantic_. Sebastian's smile softened just a bit, and his lashes lowered on clouded eyes. His father always acted like Quinton had never existed—or at least, wasn't his blood son. But Quinton had been much older than Sebastain, twelve years old when he was born—that would make him thirty-one now—and he'd left with the other members of BLACK and nobody had heard from him since. Sebastian frowned around his coffee. Besides, Quinton had never _acted_ like a son. Or a brother. Sebastian, the romantic. Quinton, the monster.

"How are you feeling today, Father?"

His father skirted the question, easily. "Do you remember what I told you when I designated you as the new leader of BLACK? That I was confident in your being level-headed. You are, Sebastian. That's what's good about being a romantic _and_ a gunslinger."

"Father—"

"The Phantomhives have been digging around in documents and records related to St. Mikael's." Lord Michaelis met his son's eyes over the table, letting these words sink in for a moment. "I'm still a little angry about the incident in October, but I think you'll be able to persuade the others to honor the gravity of the situation. This isn't a game. BLACK is not separate from me, and I've made sure of that by making you leader. Remember that you may be such, but you still answer to me."

"What exactly are you asking me to do, prefacing with such a lecture?" Sebastian propped an elbow on the table, cradling his temple in his fingers. _My son, the romantic_—

"They're digging around, Sebastian, and I don't know why. You know how murky our history at St. Mikael's is. Are they searching for blackmail, or is there some truth I'm not aware of? I just don't know. It makes me nervous. I'm too old to play this game of war any longer, so I want you to watch them. Watch them like a hawk. Anything suspicious, anything uncovered... Just keep an eye on everything, Sebastian. That's all."

Sebastian cleared his throat, running a finger along the edge of the table. "That's all?" he murmured.

"Yes." Lord Michaelis shrugged idly, and it was somehow regal. "I'm asking you as your father as well as the head of this family, so please do your best. No... I know you'll do your best, Sebastian. You wouldn't allow anything less."

Another silence fell, but Sebastian was not at rest. He shifted in his chair, rubbed his aching temples. He dug in his pocket for his last clove cigarette and closed his eyes, pulling his scarf down to feel the cool December air on his skin.

_The Phantomhives are digging around..._ Yes, yes they are. Sebastian had no doubt of it. In St. Mikael's, nonetheless. He was well aware of the incriminating past of St. Mikael's, and if Ciel found it— Well, Ciel had been perfectly honest with the intentions he had once he found the killers of his parents and his bastard kidnappers. And Sebastian didn't doubt his determination or his ability to keep his word. He didn't doubt any of it in the _least_.

And now for his father, he was to _keep an eye on everything_. If only they all knew.

* * *

_scene IV._

* * *

It was 1882. A set of peace laws had been established the year before, but the Michaelis family wasn't taking any chances. _Both of m__y sons will know how to survive_, Lord Michaelis declared from the head of the dining table, and Sebastian frowned at his soup and Quinton raised his glass in a toast of agreement.

Quinton was always thinking about guns and bullets and strategic moves, so when he had been of age, he'd had no problem leaving the manor for a few months of training. But Sebastian hated it. He wasn't allowed to bring more than one book. They had to leave the beauty of New London and stay at a militia camp outside Yekaterinburg, and they were drilled intensively on loading guns, aiming guns, shooting guns, unloading guns, cleaning guns, running, dodging, hiding, running-dodging-hiding with guns, running-dodging-hiding-_aiming_-_unloading-reloading _guns, instincts should a gun jam, the best guns for the best situations, and too many other useless lessons that Sebastian retained and excelled at, but didn't prefer. He was twelve years old. It was fun, but he had other inclinations. Like learning about Aristotle.

The militia camp was small. They all slept in one room with lines of cots—Grell and William, and those others, the energetic, neurotic blond one and the one with a mask of smug apathy behind glasses. And at night, Sebastian had no trouble relaxing even though the bed was uneven and his blanket scratchy, but his mind would wander far away and sometimes he'd try to read with a lighter to illuminate the words, and sometimes he and Grell would lay and exchange scowling faces and muffled laughter every time they heard Alois taking to bed someone new. Some nights it was Claude, some nights it was Wolfe, or Red, or Vyncent, and once or twice even Quinton. The blankets would rustle; the whispering voices would float through the room; the shoddy bed would creak and Alois had no shame, so he didn't mute his sighs and gasps and little whimpers of pleasure. And _How old is he again?_ Sebastian would mouth to Grell, and Grell would shake his head, bedtime ponytail bobbing in the darkness, and mouth back with wide eyes, _Maybe he lied about his age!_

The older members of BLACK ran the training, thankfully. The militia camp had been abandoned by the Queen's soldiers long ago, and served more as a shooting range for the Michaelis family. With the absence of real military, the atmosphere of stifling formality was gone, too. There would be training, and then there would be evenings spent in the cafeteria, the older members smoking cigarettes and playing cards and leading by gangster example.

The end of training made them general gunslingers and junior members of BLACK. Lord Michaelis rewarded his youngest son with an ivory-gripped Merwin Hulbert, the words _Hell Lord_ engraved on the barrel, sitting comfortably in red velvet in a cherrywood case. Sebastian blushed about it, but not really because he was honored. He was kind of embarrassed.

First there had been Rosalie, and then Charysse, and much later on, Victoria. There were always assignments and Sebastian was always biding his time until his orders were complete and he could hide away in a book or devote every breath to his heart's current obsession. Assignments were random and erratic, simple punk fun executed by a gang with more authority than the ones on the streets of New London. They patrolled the streets and kept lower gangs kissing their feet; they spied on Phantomhives and terrorized Phantomhive civilians the same way they terrorized the general public; they hit the scene when a street gang bearing the Michaelis colors was in a fight with an enemy gang, and they protected Michaelis family members at all times.

They carried themselves with a royal pride, but Sebastian knew they were hardly any better than the gangs of the commoners. Not many people knew that BLACK were actually members of the Michaelis household, and BLACK took advantage of that—gambling, drinking, fighting, partying. It was all magnificent fun to them.

Sebastian was thirteen. His hair was long. He wore it tied back, high off his neck. He walked with the grace of a privileged child and his eyes distant in his thoughts. He met with private tutors every Monday and Wednesday, but he was at the age where anything more to learn would be found in the books in the library or in the experience of life—which, for him, was a life of gold and bright flowers and indulgent parents.

His first real gunfight happened in August the year he was thirteen, the air sticky and heavy with the end of summer, and Sebastian liked the thrill. He was good at it, and he knew it. But he got bored of it quickly. It became tedium: the senior members gave him orders, Sebastian obeyed, and then he returned to his library and tried to immerse himself in the words, not the blood or the sounds of bullets puncturing skin, shattering glass, or the way people screamed as if demons from Hell below had just crossed the physical barrier and entered their world.

Lady Michaelis hated the reclusive attitude that she'd been praying was a phase since her youngest son had been six, but Sebastian's father wouldn't let her bother him so she'd return her focus to her elder son, Quinton, and smile and bat her lashes and remind him of what a good job he was doing for the family. Only when Sebastian came back from an assignment with a wounded shoulder and his temple bloodied by the butt of a gun did his mother ever sit and fawn over him, bandaged up in his big room with a stack of books at his bedside next to his soup. And it wasn't even that bad, he insisted, but his mother wanted to believe it was. She wanted her younger son to stop being _a romantic_ and start being _a fighter_ like Quinton.

Sebastian met Rosalie when his boredom with BLACK was at its worst. Assignments were tedious; the peace laws had been unofficially revoked by the public; the Michaelis collection of gunslingers had picked up the daughter of Lord Michaelis's cousin, a girl referred to as _the Beast_; his forehead was still black and blue from a bad fight and Rosalie was aspiring to be a nurse. Sebastian loved her for exactly three months.

She was tall and pretty, with big brown eyes and chestnut curls, and she had liked to check on him when his mother wouldn't let him out of bed. She'd examine his small cuts and bruises, and say, "I'm going to be a nurse one day. I'm studying, right now." She was the daughter of one of Lord Michaelis's friends, and even though she was fifteen, she returned all of Sebastian's endless flirtations and even so much as let him put an arm around her on their walks in the orchard before she asked him why he wasn't more involved in BLACK—not the assignments, but the parties. The social jokes. The _arrogance_.

"Because, I think it's boring," Sebastian replied, and that was all he could surmise from it—_boring_. "But life isn't boring anymore, talking to you, Rosalie..."

Rosalie blushed and laughed and called him a silly boy, and she kissed his cheek beneath the blossoms of a tree before running off through the garden and letting him chase her. They laughed, and they tumbled, and they lay nose-to-nose and Sebastian thought that as long as Rosalie was there and filling his head, he'd be happy.

Sebastian found her kissing Quinton three weeks before he turned fourteen. He told Grell, who told his father, who told Lord Michaelis, and a few days later, Rosalie was sent back to her home in the Vernon district. Quinton partied with Wolfe and the Joker. The Beast offered Sebastian her condolences, touching his hand, and he asked her if she was a house guest. In the hall, she looked ready to tear him limb from limb as she screamed at him:

"I've been living here for four months. I've been _talking_ to you for four months, now and again. You really don't even remember that? You were _that obsessed_ with that little wench? You _bastard_. _Rot in hell_."

Sebastian watched her storm away, thirteen years old and in trousers, and then he drifted down to his room in the library, locking himself in with some books. He didn't protest when Grell wandered in and sat by him after dinner.

He thought that maybe he'd start getting more involved in BLACK.

Sixteen was a big year for Sebastian. He shot his eighth lethal bullet in a time of alleged _peace_; he was experienced in gunslinging, lying, smoking, drinking, gambling; he finished reading his one-hundredth and third book; he got knocked out during a fight and woke up cold and in pain on the cobblestones just as Alois, the Beast, and Grell returned for him; he met Charysse, who was a whore; he slept with her because she was BLACK's birthday present to him; he loved her _obsessively_ for quite some time, but his devotion and routine visits to her room at the Madame's were not enough to keep her from hanging herself a few months later; he put more effort into his assignments with BLACK; he heard news that Rosalie had died in childbirth somewhere in the Vernon district; he decided to join his teammates in celebration one night, which turned out to be the night he got absolutely drunk for the first time, the night Alois made a move on him, the night he and Claude got into a wrestling match neither could win in their state of intoxication, and the night he gave Grell a more-than-friendly kiss or two across the billiards table. It was also the year that Sebastian thought of fondly as his last naïve year.

* * *

"You're a genius, Quinton. A Goddamn _genius_."

Sebastian stared. Wolfe clapped his older brother on the back and the others around the drawing room uttered a chorus of concurrence. Guns lay out, polish and rags on the table. A fire roared in the hearth. Sebastian shifted where he sat in a wing-backed chair, one leg tucked beneath the other. The Joker sat across from him, on the sofa, and he had a similar look of discomfort and doubt pinching up his face.

_No_, Sebastian wanted to say. _He's NOT a genius. This is a bad, bad idea. _But he didn't even have to bite his tongue; years of silent obedience had taken their toll. His fingertips brushed over the words in the barrel of his gun—_Hell Lord_. He heard his mother in his head. _Quinton, you're such a good boy. We're so lucky to have you as our own._ It made him sick.

He was the only junior member of BLACK at the gun-cleaning party. Quinton had asked him to come after dinner, and that had made him uneasy to begin with, but now Sebastian felt very small and vulnerable. He felt in the spotlight, somehow, even though he was close to a wallflower in the upholstered chair. Across from him, the Joker rubbed at his temples and gawked at his feet as the others gathered around Quinton and spoke in excited tones about his latest _genius_ idea.

Sebastian wanted nothing to do with it. He hoped he wasn't involved. He cleared his throat, and first the Joker looked at him, and then the others. Sebastian met his brother's eyes, trying to ignore the fact that everyone else was staring, too.

"Am I part of this assignment?" he asked softly.

There was a brief silence, swaying on the threshold between awkward and just plain precarious. Quinton's mouth moved on the words before they came out, his eyes sharpening. He laughed, harshly—and the others laughed along, grown men but as brainless at the moment as any crony.

"Of course not, baby brother," Quinton said. He sounded as if he were trying to comfort him, a curious lilt to his voice like Sebastian had just asked if there were monsters beneath his bed. "No, Sebastian. This is a job for _experienced_ members, only."

There was a second where Sebastian stared in disbelief, before the rage burned in his throat and he looked away, because if he saw the way the senior members of BLACK were looking at him any longer—eyes sparkling, faces alive with subdued laughter, patronizing and condescending—he might do something rash that would get Quinton angry.

Sebastian looked up. The Joker peered at him from the couch across the table. He offered a thin smile, and he looked like a very sad clown.

Quinton and the others struck up their impatient conversation again. Sebastian gawked at the Joker in silence before gathering his weapon and leaving the drawing room. The Joker was a good guy. He was sweet, and kind, and he made the Beast happy when Sebastian had hurt her feelings. Sebastian thought that the Joker would make a better leader than Quinton.

Quinton was _not_ a genius, but apparently nobody thought that besides Sebastian and the Joker. And in an arrogant gang like BLACK, majority ruled over integrity.

* * *

It was early January, cold and rainy outside. Sebastian stared out the window in the hall, feeling the chill from outside creep in through the windowpanes. The orchard was soggy. Alois and Claude were playing a very questionable game of tag, down in the other corners of the gallery. Grell had wandered by once or twice, but maybe there was something in Sebastian's face that told him to stay away.

Quinton and the senior members of BLACK had left an hour earlier. The plan was to ruin the Phantomhives once and for all, and to enervate them to the point of forfeit. Forfeiting what?

Sebastian had the strangest intuition that right then, at that very moment, they were murdering the Earl of Phantomhive and his wife. What a genius idea. The intuition, the weird sensation, the tingle in his muscles, a current of clarity shuttling down his spine— Sebastian just knew it. They were killing them now. And they were going to dump their bodies in Lovers' Lane, like they'd said, and _What about the boy?_ he'd asked Quinton later in the night of the gun-cleaning party, lingering in his brother's doorway as the clock struck midnight. And Quinton had smiled an insane smile and assured him, _Don't worry, baby brother. We're not killing him. We've got a better plan. Father Kelvin will take care of him._

And, peering out the window and into the gray afternoon, Sebastian wished he could tell his father what was going on. He wished he could walk away from the window, but his feet would not move. He wished he could talk, just to anyone who would listen—but he could hardly swallow. He felt hollow, and numb, and a little overwhelmed by the gnawing dread that something volatile was building in the air.

But what could he do? He was Sebastian, the romantic, the baby brother. There was no power in any of those things.

* * *

Somehow, Sebastian made it from the window in the eastern wing of the house to the rooftops above Lovers' Lane. There, broken and bloodied on the ground were Vincent and Rachel Phantomhive. It made his skin crawl. It made his stomach lurch. It was different when the reality wasn't relieved by the adrenaline of fight-or-die.

The rain misted, dampening his clammy skin. His fur collar made his neck sweat. Sebastian was about to leave, obviously too late—not that he'd really had a _plan of action_ or anything, he was just seventeen and nobody cared what an _inexperienced_ gunslinger thought—when his eye caught on Ciel Phantomhive staggering in from the mouth of the alley, and then Sebastian was rooted in place on the rooftops, watching, and he could hardly breathe.

Beautiful little boy, getting wet in the spitting rain. Beautiful because his lashes were long and his eyes were big, and his hair fell about his face in longish locks that looked as soft as silk but everything was getting wet. He was swimming in a big coat, thin legs shifting along with no real purpose whatsoever. He looked dazed, disoriented. He almost stepped on his father. He stared for a long moment, and Sebastian watched him as he stared. Sebastian watched him as he dug in his pockets, then stared some more, as if completely at a loss.

Sebastian's mouth was dry. His throat locked. His heart hammered, and he wanted to go down there and gather the little boy into his arms and rock him and run his fingers through his hair and kiss his wet cheeks and tell him, _It's okay, they haven't gotten you yet, and I'll make sure they don't. I'm a romantic, and Quinton's a fighter, but a romantic man can be a force to be reckoned with, too, because love is insanity and obsession and I'll teach you that_—

Sebastian watched Ciel Phantomhive fall in a puddle. Up on the rooftops, Sebastian's fingers trembled. He watched Ciel Phantomhive stand up and continue stumbling forth, swaying from step to step, looking up into the sky and drifting along. And then there was a familiar voice, down in the alley. It was the Joker. Sweet, sweet Joker. The guy with the big heart.

_Don't worry, baby brother,_ Quinton had said. _We're not killing him. We've got a better plan. Father Kelvin will take care of him._

Ciel Phantomhive crumpled into the Joker's arms, in the corner of Lovers' Lane. The Joker would take him to St. Mikael's.

Sebastian's footsteps crunched on the rooftop as he turned and hurried away. He scraped down the side of the building, where the fire escape was. He wavered a few steps, then turned into a nearby alley and vomited. An expensive Michaelis lunch didn't taste as good the second time around. He pressed his face to the cold stone of the building next to him and closed his eyes. _Father Kelvin_. His father called the man a nut, but what church leader wasn't? God, he couldn't shake this sense of _desolation_. It wasn't exactly guilt. It was more like intense anxiety, a hate, a whirlwind of everything from pride to helplessness—

Sebastian knew one thing for sure, shivering in his militia jacket, and that was that this genius idea of his brother's was not going to end any feud any time soon.

* * *

The short period of peace shattered.

There were three months of brutal bloodshed, and Sebastian met Victoria right before a fight in Pavlov's Place. She made him think of the little boy in Lovers' Lane with her white skin and big eyes, and dark locks of hair. He sent her gifts; she sent him smiles. The streets were dangerous—gangs roaming in the name of the ruined Phantomhives, baring their fangs at anyone who looked at them wrong, gangs fighting in the name of Michaelis instigating brawl after brawl in a state of triumph and invincibility, now that the Phantomhives had been practically destroyed. BLACK was no exception.

The Queen wouldn't get involved. The web of bloodshed was too tangled. Some feared the Queen would ask New London to secede from the province. BLACK found it easy to frame a group of radicals for the murder of the Phantomhive family, but nobody cared. Nobody remembered their names or any travesty of justice that might have been displayed. The world was in uproar and for BLACK there were gun fights, poker games, victory raids, and too much pride.

The biggest fight of the three months was the fight between the Phantomhive protective services and BLACK. The Phantomhive protective services surprised them. The Joker fell victim to hidden blades and bullets. Victoria had been with them, arm in Sebastian's, and as an innocent civilian on the scene perhaps too kind to be involved, she begged the fighting to stop and was shot three times in the chest, then once in the head. The Phantomhive protective services were virtually slaughtered. Wolfe and Vyncent were injured; Vyncent died later in the hospital. Alois wavered on the verge of a psychotic break, and Grell cried because so many people had died.

Lord Michaelis sent Sebastian's brother and the remaining senior members of BLACK away from New London until further notice, hoping their absence would mean less violence. _Until further notice _could have been a death sentence.

Lord Michaelis was quiet for weeks. His wife wore mourning colors even though her son was still alive. Days later, news surfaced that Ciel Phantomhive had somehow reappeared at the gates of his manor, alive and ready to take over as the head of his family. The chaos was a chaos with system again. Sebastian found his old collection of Poe.

Sebastian read.

* * *

_scene V._

* * *

_Why is it ever only the church or your balcony? _Sebastian asked before, and Ciel had told him pleasantly that he'd never set foot in Michaelis territory, even to be with him.

Overhead, the stars that shone through the December clouds were minimal—dim little pinpricks in the blanket of night, and the moon was a soft, quarter-full glow. Midnight had come and gone. The time was nearing one in the morning; the echo of servants bustling in the big Phantomhive house had finally settled down on Christmas, the last of the bedroom lights had been extinguished, and in the southern wing of the manor, the dark and the quiet were nice. Seclusion, on the Earl's balcony where the snow had been swept away and the stone was like ice. Sebastian sat against the balustrade with a stone gargoyle perched above his head and the Earl seated comfortably on his lap. The doors to the room were open but the curtains drawn, too-big sleeves of a hand-me-down smoking jacket pushed to his elbows as Sebastian fingered his wrists.

_It's the time for giving, after all_, Sebastian had said—and after much demurring on Ciel's end, he finally accepted the little carefully wrapped book, reminiscent of a potential gunslinger's first package. It was Shakespeare. It was ignored, as with flustered Christmas wishes mouths met and bodies shifted, and the holiday was forgotten in balcony secrets.

"Something's on your mind," Ciel whispered, brushing long hair from Sebastian's eyes, tucking it behind his ear. Sebastian remained distant for a moment, before he shook his head and lifted his face. He smiled at Ciel and pulled him closer. Ciel's knees bumped the stone and as Sebastian's arms settled on his waist, Ciel let their foreheads touch and dust together gently. He could feel the sturdy warmth of Sebastian's legs beneath him, toes curling in his house shoes. His ears ached. The night was bitterly cold, but it made him chase body heat, curled in against Sebastian's chest, and that was nice.

"It's been almost three months of this, now."

Ciel looked up from where he'd nosed off into Sebastian's ear, frowning thinly. "Of what?"

Sebastian met his eyes, smiling curiously. Ciel fidgeted in his lap, fingers wiggling in the rough shoulders of his fur-collared jacket. Three months and he still couldn't figure out certain shades of Sebastian's smile.

"Three months we've been _seeing each other_."

"Is that a bad thing?" Ciel frowned down his nose at the young man slouched before him, sitting primly on his lap, feeling every shape of it through the thin cotton of his nightclothes. Their secret nighttime rendezvous had evolved, become more serious, meaning much more in the pit of his chest—and how that happened when Sebastian was a damned Michaelis, he wasn't sure, but he liked it. A smile toyed at the edge of his mouth, but he repressed it, tapping his fingers on Sebastian's shoulders.

"Is it?" he asked again. "What's the matter? Are you bored? Or are you sick of sneaking around? Well, Sebastian, I don't know if there's any way we could possibly do this otherwise—"

Sebastian laughed. Ciel's smugness softened, into a smile as his shoulders drooped and his hands fell to Sebastian's chest, feeling it roll with his laughter. It was perfect on his ears, a sound that made his skin heat up and his chest tighten with emotion. Sebastian was like a little boy sometimes, when he let his mask of cold solemnity slip off.

"I'm just being—"

"_Soft_," Ciel finished for him, and Sebastian laughed again. Ciel grinned, like a child delighted to be acknowledged. Sebastian drew him in close again, into a kiss. Ciel relaxed, conceding. He tipped his head and returned the kiss daintily, reveling in the smell and the taste and the feel of it all. Gentle graze of teeth, wet lips and hot tongue waiting patiently. The taste of something sweet, and the taste of something metallic, like Sebastian was always nervous.

Hands chilled by the night air touched Ciel's neck. He shuddered, back arching. Sebastian's fingers drifted down, into the shoulders of the smoking jacket, down the front of his chest and up, into his nightshirt. Made his heart speed up, icy skin on hot. Made him squirm, made him pull on Sebastian's hair, made his breath quicken as Sebastian's thumb brushed over his chest, over his nipple, already stiff from the cold of the night air and the cold of Sebastian's touch.

In the chill of the wind, it was just their breath and movement, a murmur here and a whisper there. The rustle of clothing, a startled gasp at the cold. Below the gargoyle on the right corner of his balcony, Ciel arched into Sebastian's touch, fingers fisted in his collar and lips pressed to his ear. With every breath Ciel huffed into his neck, Sebastian twitched, one hand at his tailbone and the other splayed on his chest, and after a moment—a chuckle or two—they kissed again, with the abandon and indulgence of children. Tangled in the corner of the stone, travelling hands and deep, breathless kisses. Hips that bucked in response, warm thighs in nightclothes grinding down into a lap of pinstripe tweed. Sensual, and frantic, voices cut off as they tumbled from open lips because even though _that_ touch was amazing, nobody could know they were out there together—

Ciel trailed kisses down Sebastian's neck, planted his hands on his hips and let his body move against him, and when Sebastian didn't catch the boyish moan as it started coming out, he clapped his own hand across his mouth and Ciel couldn't help but laugh, knuckling him a few times as reprimand.

Sebastian's hands groped down his thighs and Ciel felt warmer for it. Sebastian's mouth moved on his neck—tongue and teeth and hot kisses—and Ciel said, "Are you still distracted by whatever was on your mind earlier?"

Sebastian fell still for a moment, breathing against his neck. Ciel licked his lips, lashes fluttering as he peered up at the dark sky. Sebastian's knuckles twitched on his legs, and Ciel's stomach twisted because the feel of his fingers shifting in such a ticklish area made his hips want to dance. And sometimes, Ciel wondered about Sebastian—about just what had happened to him along the way of his life that made him into such a child at times. Curled in his arms, big, copper-brown eyes pools of honesty in the moonlight, mouth candid for all its sarcasm and cynicism, his entire being suddenly simple as he buckled under the weight of tangled thoughts behind his eyes.

Sebastian smiled, and the flash of innocence was gone as the lusting fiend was back. His hands moved up Ciel's legs and Ciel laughed, head cocked back and hair falling from his eyes. It tickled but it felt too good—

"Not at all," Sebastian purred into his ear, giving a little squeeze where he knew it would trigger a wonderful squirm. Ciel's chuckles turned to childish giggles, and then became little breaths of cowed delight. "No, not at all," Sebastian said again, murmured on Ciel's chin. "I didn't want to trouble you."

"You could never trouble me," Ciel whispered, taking hold of Sebastian's face and meeting his eyes as he pressed their foreheads together again. "You anger me sometimes—you anger me _greatly_—but somehow, you can't trouble me."

* * *

Sebastian tucked him in to sleep as if he were his butler, and he sat at his feet cross-legged, watching the fire dying away in the hearth as he thought about Grell. He'd stopped him in the hallway earlier, after dinner, by the window with the perfect view of the Michaelis orchard, long red hair tied up in a ponytail and glasses perched on top of his head. And Sebastian had remembered the way that he kind of loved Grell for his nuisance, and he'd offered him a smile that had promptly soured when Grell opened his mouth.

_Now that __you've gotten close enough to that Phantomhive kid, let's do a favor for your dad and break into the manor, give them a scare and demand to know what he's digging around at St. Mikael's for, anyway. Your dad'll be proud!_

Sebastian turned, in the master bedroom of the Phantomhive manor, and watched Ciel as he slept. He seemed peaceful, trusting. He looked almost young and nubile, with lashes shut and thin lips parted and little fingers curled limply on his pillow. Sebastian wanted to lie down next to him, and fall asleep in that pocket of warmth pressed against his body and smelling his hair, but he couldn't. He had to get back home soon.

The last of the fire crackled. Sebastian's frown tightened. The room had warmed up once they'd closed the balcony doors, but he was still cold.

* * *

_As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words._

William Shakespeare.

_The curtain rises on Act IV soon._


	8. act IV: scenes I and II

**rooks and romanticide.**

**Disclaimers: I do not own.**

**Ratings/Warnings: AU, T+; graphic content such as violence, child abuse, child prostitution, recreational substance use references, explicit scenes and mature themes.**

* * *

_act IV: red._

_scenes i and ii._

* * *

_scene I._

* * *

_Ciel—my nephew. New Year's is approaching._

_Yes, auntie. I know that._

Ciel was a lightweight. Vodka burned his throat as it went down. It wasn't long before he began to feel the room tip, cheeks flushed and smile let free.

It was Old Year's Night. The strike of midnight would make it New Year's Day, and at three o'clock New Year's afternoon, the Phantomhives were holding a banquet for their household before the ball later on, and during that dinner, Ciel had to make the decision about Elizabeth Middleford and the rest of his life.

Nonetheless, at a quarter to midnight, Old Year's Night, Ciel wasn't thinking about those things. He was at the Viscount of Druitt's, wearing a gem-encrusted mask and cheering on the garish dancers on the floor as Sebastian echoed the sentiments, hidden behind a familiar black mask of his own, and the rest of the party was in uproar with similar hollers of praise.

Elizabeth. Ciel didn't want to deal with tears and heartbreak, but he really didn't want to marry her. He was well aware that it was one of the responsibilities he had to bear as head of the Phantomhives, like carrying on his family's honor, but how would he sneak Sebastian around her? As his wife, she'd know everything. And of course, ending his liaison with Sebastian was out of the question, especially with the taste of vodka on his tongue.

Sebastian beseeched him from below the balcony early in the night, eventually wooing him down and convincing him that a little sinful play would not hurt either of them. They'd be wearing masks and would be perfect nobodies, he promised. Sometimes Ciel felt as though Sebastian just didn't understand things like responsibilities, because he had none—because he was not the head of his family, because he could do whatever he wanted under the veil of night. Because as a Michaelis, his family did not have the same _pride_ as the Phantomhives, the same troubles and duties, so he ran around like a child and was never going to grow up.

But, feeling bold—and unable to deny Sebastian, that pestering tug on his heart strings with a little bit of the good-old-fashioned fun of sneaking around—Ciel had agreed. They'd parted ways, gotten dressed, and met at the Viscount's gates in the ice and the slush, and it had nothing to do with either Phantomhive or Michaelis, nor the feud between them, because it was just a rowdy bash for the more audacious of the higher-class of New London's citizens on the eve of the New Year.

Ciel slicked his hair back and wore the dreariest clothes he could find in his closet, and summoned a more playful accent to aid in his disguise. And what, oh this discolored eye? Blindness, from a fever years ago, sir.

"How cleverly you lie," Sebastian purred. Ciel was prided, but gave Sebastian no credit for it.

At the Viscount's, there were many handsome young men in silk shirts, many gorgeous young ladies and beauties in drag with lace fans and lots of flesh, members of the Decadent school presently tipsy and dancing about the hall, gambling and drinks and good music with lascivious dancing. The pain of finding Sebastian in Dmitri's Pavilion had faded down after a week of secret meetings and kisses, stroking fingers of reprieve, but the last of it was extinguished that night in all the glorious sinful play, being just a _nobody_ among other _nobodies_ there, not a Phantomhive but merely another party-goer.

The thrill of it all, and the reckless abandon, sitting around the green-topped gambling tables and sharing a chair with Sebastian as the men around them smoked cigars and opiates, and Sebastian bet along with them in hands of Black Jack. And Ciel didn't care that he resembled a courtesan or a harlequin, or any other of the many rented loves for a night where he draped on Sebastian's lap, because nobody recognized them, a Phantomhive and Michaelis lingering together in their masks and party clothes, and maybe there were other nobles in their midst but tonight they were all _nobodies_, too.

Oh, the dangerous hypocrisies of the privileged and the wise. There was a certain uncomplicated comfort in the clash between the social and private lives, and this collusive secrecy was more than perfect to hide behind.

Ciel swayed on Sebastian's knee, laughing as alcohol coursed through wholesome blood. The way Sebastian's arm felt around his waist and the way his laughter snuck down into his very bones when it echoed around the poker table made Ciel fall for him over and over again. Sebastian's eyes, such pools of thought, big and childish in one moment and so heated the next, cruel even after, and all beneath thick, boyish lashes; the smooth lines of his heart-shaped face, his air of graceful handsomeness, just over the line of androgyny; all his little gestures and the nuances in his expressions, his many different shades of smiling; his _softness_, his thoughtfulness, his humor and his wit; his strange balance between gunslinger and gentleman that was oddly perfect; the smooth timbre of his voice, sophisticated and raw, and the feel of his hands, and the taste of his breath, and the scent of his skin and the way he kissed. And Sebastian was a damned Michaelis. That was the best part. Where was the family honor in that? Ciel was quite a disobedient boy, he'd come to find, and his parents were not there to lecture him.

Sebastian won a few hands. Ciel heckled the other men for betting so much as they did as Sebastian grinned and sipped his drink and the other men scowled, laughed, smoked and told him his luck was about to change. They gambled, and they smoked, and they drank, and they wandered around the Viscount's and paused in the vestibule to let the confetti rain on them as the clock struck midnight and the year turned to 1890.

Sebastian found two familiar faces in the crowd. He introduced them as _the one with glasses _and _the blond one_, but the blond one introduced himself as _Alois_, and Ciel almost said, _You were my friend when I was young!_ But he quickly remembered that he was not Ciel Phantomhive tonight, just a nobody, a ghost, a spirit in the night, and his alibi had been his father's name. He bowed low and spoke above the noise in the great hall: "It's a pleasure, Alois. I'm Vincent."

Alois grabbed his hand and took him for a sloppy waltz around the dance floor. Sebastian and Alois's friend stood by the wall talking. Ciel laughed. Alois gave him a kiss. Ciel's eyes widened. He laughed some more, and hurried back to Sebastian, tugging at his arm, pulling him away from the sidelines and into the crowd, away from the boy he knew who didn't know him—maybe.

They danced, and it wasn't questionable because by that time, most everyone had had a drink, and it was a party for the _questionable_ faces of New London, after all. Sebastian leaned down so he'd be heard:

"That was one of my unfortunate acquaintances—Claude."

Ciel rose to his tiptoes and replied against Sebastian's neck, "The blond one—Alois Trancy—I used to play with him when I was little, until your family stole him away from us." He stumbled on a step. Sebastian smirked. He kept him from stumbling, letting his hand intentionally drift up Ciel's hip, but promptly turned the provocative gesture into one of propriety and goodwill, reaching up to fix Ciel's collar for him.

"The first time we met, it was like this," Ciel declared. "In a sea of bodies, dancing like idiots. And you chased me."

"No, you chased _me_," Sebastian corrected, laughing. It was an unencumbered sound. Ciel rolled his eyes, coming up out of the loose-armed dip Sebastian hung him into. He pressed his hands to Sebastian's chest as the room buckled if only for a few seconds. He offered a small smile and hoped it wasn't too lustful; sometimes he still caught himself putting on airs as he had at Father Kelvin's, because they were just such useful tools. But Sebastian didn't seem to notice, humming along to the voice of the violins as he led Ciel around in dizzying steps.

The song ended. The hall filled with raucous applause. Ciel's fingers curled on Sebastian's suitcoat, a frown gently wrinkling his brow. So much for family honor, feeling that generous flutter and swell of the heart about him. He had responsibilities, there was Elizabeth, and there was his revenge, too. He had his family's pride to uphold, the feud to maintain, and his revenge to exact. He'd told Sebastian about this need many times. And somehow, the Michaelis were connected to St. Mikael's through a gang called BLACK that might have died out in the last few years, and that information was such a huge step forward, it was almost intimidating, _but somehow_, Sebastian always found a way to make Ciel forget about those things, and that was disconcerting.

Sebastian took his hand and lifted it to his lips, reclaiming Ciel's attention. The violins struck up again, the clock rang once for the hour, they danced, and they kissed, out on the balcony with a fervor boyish in its urgency, alone in the moonlight and tangled together against the vine-covered wall of the Viscount's house while the breath that escaped between their lips hung on the bitter air like ice.

They went back to the Phantomhive manor, stumbling and whispering like two guilty children. They watched the sun rise from Ciel's balcony. Ciel sat in his coat, fingertips cold but legs warm where Sebastian lay beside him, head in his lap. He ran his hands through Sebastian's hair and Sebastian seemed to doze off, just after daylight broke over the hills outside New London, where windmills and farms and black trees dotted the horizon.

Ciel made his decision.

He was nervous in it, but it felt right. He had responsibilities, after all—and whatever he chose, it didn't seem there would ever be a peaceful ending.

He didn't think he'd ever allow peace. He wouldn't know what to do with it.

It was New Year's Day, and life was no simpler than it had been the New Year's Day before it.

* * *

_scene II._

* * *

The dinner welcomed the members of the household, the security services, the Middlefords, and the Indians. Ciel would reveal his decision to the immediate house first, at the banquet, and at the ball, he'd make an announcement to the public.

Elizabeth looked beautiful—and absolutely nervous. She sat at her place with her tight-mouthed mother on one side and her spineless father on the other. The Indians sat across from her. They seemed to be making her giggle, much to Lady Middleford's distaste.

There was Ciel's Uncle Clause, with Madame Red; Graham and Rodney, and Lau with his sister of choice tonight; Maylene, Bardroy, Finnian; his grandmother, and the family members that had arrived from outside of New London for just this event. Exotic foods, good drinks, and the voices rose to the gilded ceiling of the dining hall. There was the chorus of silverware and dishes, tintinnabulation of a good dinner; the smells wafted and the laughter rose, and the servants were even at ease in their hurry to and fro.

Madame Red had told him he looked like a hot mess earlier, when he'd been getting dressed. Ciel had pushed hair out of his eyes and hoped she couldn't see the party from the night before on his face or something, bags beneath his eyes and pale complexion from the few hours of sleep, maybe an unfortunate love bite or two showing. He already had a stiff headache and no appetite.

Ciel wished that Sebastian might have been there to see him looking this elegant: Camerick shirt with full sleeves, brocade tailcoat bearing black buttons and Phantomhive crest. He'd worn something similar to the masquerade in October, when he'd chased down the young man in the black mask, so he supposed it was fine—and maybe he'd leave it on for later, when Sebastian came after the fall of night, which would _not _be during the ball, of course, because he had to hold on to at least _some_ dignity for his family, and sneaking a Michaelis into a Phantomhive party on _purpose_ was definitely not okay. No, Sebastian would have to wait until the ball was over and Ciel signaled him on the balcony.

"To my nephew!" Madame Red cried out after the third course, lifting her fourth glass of scotch. The clack of the ice was lost in the decline of noise. "To my nephew," she said again, climbing to her feet. In all her red and flowing skirts, she looked wonderful, rubies and pearls bouncing on her powdered chest. "To the head of our house, my wonderful nephew, miracle after miracle. It brings tears to my eyes, it really does—my sister Rachel, and Vincent, they tried and tried and tried for a family, and after four failures, our little Ciel came along, special in so many ways. Miracle number one." She held a finger up to emphasize, and there was a murmuring hush around the table. Ciel covered his face with his hands at the leading seat, feeling quite humiliated already, although his aunt's speech meant no harm.

"Then those filthy dogs—" Madame Red gave a passionate pump of the fist, and almost spilled her drink. There was a quick hum of assent around the hall. "Those filthy dogs took my precious sister and her husband, and they _thought_ they could steal my precious nephew—but no, nobody was stealing him. Not even death. We'd learned that already. Nothing could steal my little nephew away. He came back, and that's miracle number two. And now here he stands, two years—almost three! Running our house with a hand as capable as his father's, and Ciel—"

She leaned forward, imploring him from down the table. He gawked at her from below his fingers, cheeks on fire.

"—Ciel. Even if you think I intrude, I love you very much. I want you to know that you are a very responsible young man, and even if you never tell me what has happened to you, even if you never let any of us in on what goes on behind those eyes of yours, even if you _never_ trust us with the most private knowledge that keeps shadows in your gaze—I support you in whatever you do, and I know everyone else in this court will. And if any of those Michaelis dogs knew what was good for them, they would, too. God have mercy for them, _the bastards_. They don't know what a man they oppose. So to my nephew! To you, my lord! To the Earl of Phantomhive on this New Year's Day—"

Clause touched her arm briefly, to remind her there must be an end to her inebriated discourse. Madame Red sputtered on a word or two, tearing up, then held her drink out and concluded, "_To the Earl!_"

Applause rose in something like a roar. Ciel could only stare at his plate. He smiled, faintly, because sometimes this was all too much for him to handle. He looked up, meeting the stares of his household—his _court_—and even the servants were clapping, silver trays tucked beneath their arms. The ovation drifted up, to the ceiling. He could see Elizabeth's face, glowing radiant between her mother and her father, green eyes sparkling and blonde hair tied back in a formal halfback. She looked so mature and beautiful that Ciel actually felt the first pang of indecision for the day. It had to come at some point, and it came at that moment, meeting her eyes and exchanging a smile with her from down the table. _Running our house with a hand as capable as his father's... You are a very responsible young man..._

Ciel's throat tightened, raw. He cleared it, took a sip of his water to try and soothe the ache forming there. Yes. Responsibilities. He had those. And they ran deep in his blood, deeper even than love. Both were primitive forces, but sometimes a person had to be selfless.

Ciel took hold of his wine glass and stood with a scrape of his chair on expensive checked floors. His _Rapier-A227_ pressed against his tailbone, beneath the brocade. The applause had died down into a chaos of too many voices at once, and as he stood and thrust his drink in the air, an eerie silence fell again—respectful, worshipful.

"Thank you, Madame Red," Ciel said, and his voice was little in the vast dining hall. He cleared his throat again. His eyes burned. His stomach knotted. His heart was pounding, and the indecision pulsed with it—_what do I do? what do I do? _His fingers twitched beneath his glass. He lowered his wine, holding it in both hands, eventually setting it on the table before he dropped it altogether. "Thank you, all of you, for coming tonight. I know many of you are anticipating my decisions about the family, about the house of Phantomhive—for the next year, at the least. I'll begin by addressing my status with Lady Elizabeth Middleford."

There was a murmur, rippling down one side of the table. Elizabeth hid behind her bangs, staring at her plate. Ciel smiled, and it wasn't a pretense; his heart hurt, but he couldn't help but smile, bitter and aware. Elizabeth's mother stared at him, eyes like fire. His aunt stared; his grandmother stared; everyone stared, and he couldn't speak for a moment. He licked his lips and lifted his chin.

"I have thought long and hard about this decision, and I'd like to announce that I will not be marrying Lady Elizabeth Middleford." The silence on the air buckled suddenly. Ciel went on: "At this point in time, with the world as it is, with the feud between this family and the wretched Michaelis—I feel that the protection of the Phantomhive family will be calling for one hundred percent of my time and effort, and I don't want to bring such an innocent young lady into the midst of that bloodshed."

Ciel let the hush hang, heavy and tense. He could feel the hatred from Elizabeth's mother, the confusion from many others. Ciel searched for Elizabeth's eyes, and found them—profound green, shimmering with emotion. Her dainty chin was held high, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders. For the first time, Ciel noticed the necklace hanging over her collarbone, hovering above the white skin of her chest, a modest swell of breast but enough to give her more of an air of maturity. And she smiled, even though she looked like she didn't want to. Ciel offered a meager smile back.

"That's what I was _going_ to say," he hurried, cutting through the silence. "That was my initial decision. But what I feel is right is this: I will agree to an engagement with Lady Elizabeth Middleford, and a marriage in our future, but I still believe the center of New London is too dangerous for my fiancée. I would feel much better if she stayed at her country estate with her parents until she was a bit older, until I feel it is safer for her here."

"But, my lord—" It was Frances Middleford, of course. "—don't you think that if she stayed here now, she could be trained to protect herself? Madame Red could train her—"

"I've made my decision," Ciel said firmly, casting her a scornful glance. Maybe it was too scathing for the moment, but he didn't care. It felt good, and he didn't need anybody questioning him when he already questioned himself. Elizabeth's mother was unbearable sometimes, but beside her, Elizabeth's face was pink with repressed celebration. She grinned at her plate, and the Indians whispered back and forth, making faces at her and soliciting her giggle once again.

"Moving on," Ciel said, over the dissonance around the table. "News on the feud, which I'm sure most of you are dying to hear about, as well. We've come upon some information that is particularly incriminating, involving the Michaelis family. Our next move in this game of bloody tag is as of yet undecided, but please be reassured that _we have dirt_ and we're _going_ to use it. The real murderers of my parents will be caught, and the old scheme will be brought to light so that the Michaelis family will _have _to surrender this battle, and the feud will be brought to an end. Unless, of course, the Michaelis dogs fight back—and if that's the case, the Queen will be alerted of all evidence. They're going down, I promise you. They won't escape this one, _the rats_. We've reached the beginning of the end."

There was applause.

It reached the ceiling like mayhem, beautiful mayhem, harsh on his ears but hot on his skin, and Ciel lifted his wine glass, grinning. It felt good to say those things. It felt good because he knew it was true. It was the beginning of the end.

"To the house of Phantomhive!" he cried, and a number of glittering goblets were thrust into the air, an echo of _the house of Phantomhive!_ and a chorus of voices, excited and urgent. Ciel met his aunt's bright eyes, smiling behind the rim of his wine glass. He tossed back a long sip and joined his household in good cheer, breath escaping in a burst of relief and laughter—

"_Oh, how sweet!_"

The voice came from the upper hallway, the balcony overhanging the dining hall. Behind its edge was a black-haired gunslinger, and it was a girl. And as the rest of the scene registered in a matter of brief seconds—the fur collars, the black masks, the red-haired man and three others rushing the hallway above with arms already out—the sound of gunshots rattled the air, and shells rained down on the dining table after bullets gnawed the ceiling.

It was the masquerade in October all over again: the shatter of dishes, the screams of guests, chairs and drinks knocked over as people ran for the doors or ducked beneath the table. Ciel chose the latter option, yanking out his revolver. It wasn't going to do much in an ambush, especially not when the attackers were at that distance, and thoughts raced with the icy resolve of panic.

They were the same ones from October. They'd somehow found an entrance into his home. Somebody was going to die, and Ciel's heart gave a sickening thud.

"_Earl Phantomhive_—" someone singsonged from above, "_come out and play!_"

Ciel lifted the tablecloth, searched the few faces beneath. Elizabeth. Her father. His grandmother. A few of the Phantomhives from the country. Most of those capable of fighting had left the dining hall, maybe to corner the attackers upstairs. And, there—Madame Red, crouched at the other end of the table. She seemed to feel his stare, and met his eyes from down the length of the dining table.

The infiltrators shot at the walls, at the floors, at anything harmless to lure someone out. There were voices, and Ciel recognized the slang. It made him shudder in revulsion. Coarse hisses, interspersed with Russian. The words summoned forth the memory of Kelvin—_Ooh, miliya, raspidaty, precious boy, potseluĭ menya..._

Madame Red mouthed it, jerked her head to the side. _Go_, she motioned, and Ciel hesitated at first, then made a run for the servants' entry to the kitchen. Bullets followed him, but were aimed worthlessly enough to be nothing but intimidation.

His breath ripped out of his throat, sharp. His heart thundered above a stomach churning on itself. The floor seemed to seesaw beneath him, all the hallways lengthening like a funhouse. Ciel ran, and the urgency—the adrenaline—was different this time. Cold with panic, because this wasn't a regular gunfight; this was a sneak attack, an ambush, this was an infiltration of _his home_. The horror was rusty, like he'd felt it before. It tightened in his chest, making it hard to breathe calmly. Running, running—

Around every corner, behind every door, it seemed there were members of his household scattering. _Hiding_. It made him sick with rage, rage that trembled in his fingertips with the adrenaline. His footsteps were sharp as he skidded into the servants' parlor, climbing the stairs in the corner there to make it to the second floor unseen. To make his family fear for their lives, ruining his dining hall—oh, these mongrels were going to pay.

Ciel cocked his revolver before he opened the door to the second floor, peeking between the hinges first. He nudged the door open with his toe, following the wall down the hallway. Slowly, one step at a time.

The silence on the air was ominous, volatile. He wasn't sure where his protective services were, but he was confident they were on the move somewhere. The dining hall balcony was on the southwestern wing of the house. His steps were soft, padded by the long imported rug in the hallway, and although he was Ciel Phantomhive, his fingertips shook on his gun.

The doors to his bedroom were open.

The air was still as Ciel crossed the hall, searching the corridor opposite for any sign of life. There was nothing. Open doors here, open doors there—no movement. Ciel crouched down outside his room, hidden from sight from within but able to peek through the doors hanging ajar to inspect at least one corner of his bedroom.

There, he could see his long mirror—how convenient. He could see the other half of the room in it, and there was the rustle of clothes, a flash of black in the mirror. It couldn't be a servant; that wasn't the sound of the livery. It couldn't be a guest, either, because nobody would have made it to this part of the house that quickly unless they knew their way around. Ciel could smell the crispness of winter air. He could sense the chill of it drifting inside, which meant his balcony doors were open.

Heart pounding and skin icy, in a quick and jerky motion, Ciel stood and pulled one of the doors open more, thrusting his gun into the bedroom as he crossed the threshold and met the eyes within.

Sebastian stood at the side of his bed, and in all the momentary shock on his face, his eyes looked as dark and lamentable as sin's itself.

Ciel almost dropped his gun.

The first thing he thought after that was, _Well, now Sebastian can see me in my good clothes._

The next coherent thing Ciel registered, he'd thrown his revolver to his pillow and clambered atop the bed, grabbed Sebastian by the front of his militia jacket and spit the words out inches from his pretty face.

"_Sebastian?_ What are you doing here now! What do you have to do with this! _What the hell is going on?_"

Ciel seethed. His throat burned as his voice ripped out of it; his knuckles ached where he clutched Sebastian's collar; his knees quaked where he stood on the edge of his bed, dirtying his blankets; and he knew there was all the animosity of murder in his eyes by the way Sebastian stared back at him, carefully composed and unmoved. His copper-brown eyes were cold and unaffected, but the bitterness of his frown was enough to give him away. There was no immediate answer. Ciel shook Sebastian the best he could.

"_Answer me, Goddammit!_ Sebastian, _what is going on?_"

Sebastian took hold of Ciel's arms, yanking his fingers free from his jacket. The same hard stare pierced into him, and Ciel felt his eyes burn with the beginning of childish desperation. He didn't understand. He wasn't stupid; Sebastian was here and he shouldn't be, and there'd been an attack—

"You _dog_," Ciel spat, hissing it into Sebastian's face. Sebastian cringed at the hot puff of breath, at the bark of the words, but he maintained his mask of complacency, wrestling Ciel down off the edge of the bed. Ciel's fingers hooked into claws, searching for something to grab as he stumbled down to the floor, snarling up at the Michaelis in front of him.

"You nasty, rotten, disgusting _fiend_—you _demon_—you downy _bastard_—you aren't even _denying_—you aren't even explaining yourself—you did this—you're part of this—_you filthy_ _traitor!_"

Sebastian's face changed; expression flowed into it. His eyes sharpened and he scowled. "How can I be a _traitor_?" he insisted. "I'm a Michaelis."

"Me!" Ciel broke one hand free for just a moment, clutching his chest emphatically. The desperation wrote itself across his face now, curdling with his hatred. He let go of his chest and assailed Sebastian's in a barrage of smacks and elbows. "You've betrayed _me_, Sebastian! You said you didn't care about your family, and I believed you, but perhaps that was just me being a fool, believing in that _crap_ love when all you wanted was to attack my family—"

Ciel choked off into a startled burst of breath and voice as Sebastian swept his feet out and brought him down to the bed with one wrist still in his grip. Ciel's eyes widened. He gawked up at Sebastian where he crawled forth, pinioning him. There was a crack in Sebastian's perfect indifference, a shimmer of something in Sebastian's eyes, and for just a moment, Ciel felt a little regret for exploding so suddenly. His chest rolled. It hurt to breathe.

"The less you fight me, the less time they'll have in your house," Sebastian declared, and Ciel shuddered in abhorrence at the affirmation of Sebastian's involvement. His hand was hot on his arm, his eyes burning into him. And Ciel thought that, maybe, he was getting a glimpse of the part of Sebastian that meant no-nonsense—the darker side. The _killer_ side.

"So you _are_ a part of this—"

"I've betrayed myself, as well."

"Don't get _romantic_ on me, now—"

"For the love of God, Ciel—_shut up!_"

Ciel shut up, eyes widening.

"I am a member of BLACK," Sebastian confessed, and somewhere down the hall in the southwestern wing of the house, gunshots exploded again. Someone had clearly stood up to the abandoned challenge in the dining room. Ciel felt himself sink lower into his bed as the breath left his lips in a sigh of consternation. Sebastian went on:

"I have been a member of BLACK since I was twelve. After your parents were killed, the old members of BLACK that still lived were banished from New London and I was made the leader. My subordinates—no, my _fellow members_—are just doing what they feel is appropriate as Michaelis men and women." Sebastian paused, and Ciel grimaced. He could hear screaming from the dining hall. "I'll tell you everything about that later, but for now—"

"So _you knew!_" Ciel's jaw tightened as a new spark of betrayal ripped in his chest. Steeling himself, he focused on a part of the ceiling to the left of Sebastian's head. "So the list of names I have are actually my parents' killers, too. Joker, Wolfe, Vyncent, Elijah, Quinton—"

Sebastian's patience seemed to wear ever thinner with each name he listed, and at _Quinton_, he snapped. He grabbed Ciel by the chin, redirecting his stare to meet his eyes, and Ciel bristled at all the vulnerability there—panic. Pure, methodical panic. It was one of the moments where Sebastian suddenly looked like a child.

"Let's make a treaty, you and I," Sebastian demanded, and Ciel squirmed beneath him, loathing the way he held him down. "A pact, or a contract. One that commands the feud come to an end under _our _conditions—yours, and mine. The names on that list, you can imprison them all because really, banishment isn't exactly a _punishment_. And this contract, we'll both sign it, and mark it with our blood, and the rest of our families will _have_ to agree to it after that. I'll work. It'll have to work."

_Make a contract with me_— _I've fallen in love, before. Well, no, I guess—I've fallen in contract before. That's what love is to me—_

Ciel had confirmation, now. The names on the list they'd scrounged up were the names of his kidnappers, _and_ the murderers. Two years of searching for the bastards without telling anyone just exactly why—two years of injustice and secrets—two years of the fire of revenge burning in his chest, forever unquenched. Sebastian confirmed it all for him. A pact wasn't exactly a new set of peace laws, but more like a petition—with both their blood on it, ending the feud under _their conditions_. That sounded blissful. That sounded like such a logical solution, why hadn't they thought of it before?

Maybe it was the way Sebastian's voice was, soft and smooth, comforting. Ciel wanted that. He didn't want to hate him. He pressed his cheek into Sebastian's arm, closing his eyes tight. The decision throbbed in his chest. Responsibilities. He could exact his revenge _and_ his responsibilities. He couldn't hate Sebastian, not with him pressing him to the bed and whispering such things in his ear. If he was lying again, Sebastian wouldn't be going to such lengths to appease him. _I've fallen in contract before_—

Ciel dusted a chaste kiss on Sebastian's knuckles, where they clutched at his wrist. He turned his eyes up, meeting Sebastian's—and there must have been something in his stare, because Sebastian visibly softened, wilted with a heavy breath.

A pact with a Michaelis who'd known secrets all along, demanding the end of the feud. Ciel wondered if his father would be proud of such a decision. He wondered if it would even last for very long.

It had been hardly five minutes since Ciel noticed his open bedroom door, and in those five minutes the standoff in the dining hall had broken. Suddenly, there was commotion in the hallway—banging doors, loud voices and the hustle of a group—and as the sound of Madame Red's voice cut through the air, Ciel's eyes shot open.

Less than five minutes, and in the next sixty seconds, everything passed in a blur. A blur of time, relentless and fast but seeming to stretch forever in its haste, as time always does in a vital moment.

The seconds ticked by: Ciel kicked Sebastian away, and Sebastian complied. He moved to the side as Ciel grabbed his gun, scrambling off his bed and into the hallway. The red-haired attacker was there, the one who'd danced around a spray of bullets on the roof in October, the one who Ciel had seen Sebastian talking to in Dmitri's Pavilion. There was the sound of members of the house apprehending others in the opposite wing, voices and chaos echoing down the opulent halls.

And the red-haired one was squaring off with Madame Red, and the red-haired one told her how someone called the Rook had told them just how to get in, how the Earl had practically invited everyone, how this ignominy of the Phantomhives was going to go down in history with all the other embarrassments, how this is what happened when the Phantomhives went snooping around in Michaelis history, and Madame Red aimed her gun and told him that if he didn't give up by the count of three, he was dead and so were his pals.

At fifteen seconds, Ciel thought that if they were trying to pull another stunt like killing his parents, they would have been shooting people down already. This was obviously just another game the Michaelis were playing, clearly not a gang of simple delinquents. It was just a big game, and Ciel thought it was dumb. It wasn't going to frighten him, if they thought it would. It just angered him.

Sebastian touched his shoulder as Ciel's breath came out in sharp little puffs. Ciel shook him off, thinking about how Madame Red shouldn't be there because she'd had four drinks already, and talented or not, her reactions were going to be dulled. Gunshots were all he heard, maybe ringing in his ears only, maybe far away in the house and ruining the walls and floor.

The red-haired gunslinger wasn't buying it. He pointed his gun right back at Madame Red and told her how the Earl had been growing close enough to the son of Lord Michaelis in the last few months that there had never even been _concerns_ of a hitch in the plan, and at that moment, Madame Red saw her nephew in his doorway, and the dread on her face—the betrayal—the confusion—the disappointment—none of it could measure up to the crushed sound of her voice, sobered up and defeated, as she husked:

"Ciel... What he's saying... Can't be true, right?"

Twenty-two seconds, and Ciel opened his mouth, searching for the words but unable to do anything but breathe. Stare. Listen to the staccato of gunshots and the Russian shouts from across the house. Footsteps pounding down the hallway, and yes, security was coming, they'd apprehended the others and they were going to get this red-haired gunslinger, and Ciel shook his head, brow knotting, opening and closing his mouth. How did he tell her? What did he tell her? This was his fault. He'd let this happen.

Around the corner, the footsteps scraped to a halt. There was laughter—laughter dancing to the ceiling from below the full face mask on a blond boy. Another few rounds shattered the air, discordant, lead scattering in close proximity. A maid at the other end of the hallway screamed, cowering behind a palm in the corner.

Thirty seconds, voices of Rodney and Graham, closing in on the corner now, and Ciel didn't even notice the masked few as they darted past him where he'd crumpled down against the door to avoid getting shot. Through his bedroom they went, throwing themselves over the balcony in escape. The curtains fluttered. The noise carried. The red-haired gunslinger stared, in shock, then bolted, hair flying in the air as he brushed past Ciel and monkeyed down his balcony like the others.

Ciel watched, mouth open, as Madame Red sagged to her knees, and the red of her dress and the red of her hair and the red of her lace gloves and the red of the carpet soaked up the blood as it rushed from the hole in her neck, just above her collarbone. The hole in her chest, just above the press of her bodice.

Thirty-six seconds was all it took. Sebastian was behind Ciel where he'd collapsed in the threshold to his bedroom, silent. The smell of gunpowder and metal, and the stink of blood—all of it coagulated on the air. The silence rang in Ciel's ears beneath the steady throb of his heart. He could hear the roar of hysteria from the dining hall, echoing through the floors, the halls. Sebastian's presence was overwhelming, buzzing in the space between them, and Ciel was unable to take his eyes from his aunt as she bled on the expensive floor. It stained the pearls and silver-nested rubies on her breast.

Inept. They were all inept. When had they gotten that way? When he'd ensured security would still be lax on his wing of the house so they wouldn't find suggestive footprints in the snow, or perhaps hear the gasps between kisses or the secret laughter of gunslinger and earl?

Ciel rocked to his knees and climbed to a shaky stand. He turned. The heel of his shoe squished in the soggy carpet.

He hit Sebastian. He punched and slapped, just hitting as the tears filled his eyes and doubled, trebled his vision. The world seemed to sway. His chest was tight.

"_You bastard!_" His voice echoed, screeching. "_You_ did this! This is all _your_ _fault!_" He sought out Sebastian's eyes as the tears blurred his own. Ciel shook him, hit him, stomped his feet and begged for it to be different. He trembled in his hatred.

"All you wanted from me was a way in to my family! That was it! You're a liar and a sneak and a devil, and you played me! You took advantage of me! I thought—no, I didn't think—if I'd thought, I wouldn't have fallen for your tricks, you... You blasted... _You dirty Michaelis, I'll kill you!_"

Ciel smacked him then, across the face. Not a slap but not quite a balled fist, just the butt of his palm with clawed fingers. He felt his nails scrape into the soft skin he loved to touch. His hand stung from the impact.

Sebastian stared at the floor, skin reddening. There were little scritches from Ciel's nails, bleeding in fragile glittering minuscule beads on the apple of his cheek.

Ciel panted. Rodney, Graham, and Clause rounded the corner and seemed to stop short, frozen in place by the scene they found in the southern wing. Madame Red, Ciel, and a Michaelis.

Sixty seconds had passed by the time the curtains fluttered and Sebastian climbed down the side of the Earl's balcony, and only after he'd scaled the stacked-stone wall and left Phantomhive grounds did the first man speak. It was Clause, sending the other two off to search the house, and then the estate, and to meet with security and the one attacker they'd managed to catch, to gather everyone in the drawing room, count heads, and get them all something to drink. And then:

"...Ciel?"

The bloody hallway spun. The tears spilled over, but he kept his face straight. With the wave of numbness flowing over him, forcing all thoughts and emotion to recede like the tides, it wasn't very difficult to look blank. Ciel grabbed one of the doors to his room for stability, but it moved on its hinges, and he sat down heavy on the carpet and reached for his uncle to help him up.

* * *

_But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space._

John Donne.

_Act IV will resume shortly. _


	9. act IV: scenes III, IV, and V

**rooks and romanticide.**

**Disclaimers: I do not own.**

**Rating/Warning: AU; M for this chapter due to explicit scenes, graphic content such as violence, recreational substance use references, explicit scenes and mature themes.**

* * *

_act IV: red_

_scenes iii, iv, and v._

* * *

_scene III._

* * *

They'd all reveled in a sense of rebellious accomplishment as they'd retreated, but Sebastian hadn't.

There had been a knot in his throat, clenching on his heart, and it hadn't really been guilt so much as a feeling of emptiness. The same spiraling, unquestioning submission he'd succumbed to in his younger years, tucking away rational thought and just _obeying_. It was easier that way. He didn't have to deal with the gravity of things that way. And oh, his father.

_I'm still a little angry about the incident in October, but I think you'll be able to persuade the others to honor the gravity of the situation. The GRAVITY_—

And the rest of them, so obviously cowed by something, reverent of him as they'd never been before, not out of duty but out of awe. Like gossipy children as they all finally realized the extent of their leader's involvement with Ciel Phantomhive, dumbstruck in wonderment.

_All you wanted from me was a way in to my family! You took advantage of me! You dirty Michaelis_—

Yes. Unintentionally, yes. That was what he'd done.

"You left Will," Lord Michaelis reiterated, and the placidity of his voice was unnerving. Sebastian licked his lips, gawking at his father's back.

"...Yes," he whispered. "They'd already gotten him, though, Father. There was nothing we could do—"

The tea set was imported silver, hand-crafted. It crashed to the floor as his father's hand swept the table, and the tea, the sugar, spilled on the carpet. Silver clattered. Candied fruits and nuts scattered from their silver plates.

Sebastian didn't wince. He held his face straight, a mask of bitterness. The weight of everything settled, precarious, on his shoulders again—of being inane, of his brother, of the foul play two years ago, of the nights spent with the heir of Phantomhive as his lover. Something leaden—maybe shame, maybe anger—coiled in his stomach, crawled beneath his skin.

Across from him, his mother sat with her back rigid and her hands clasped in her lap, lace gloves wrinkled as she clutched at her little fan. She stared down her nose at him. If he'd been younger, he might have shrunk down at the scorn in her cold, contemptuous frown, but he'd learned to brush these things off.

The lounge filled with the sounds of rage. Lord Michaelis paced the room, breaths hissing, footsteps heavy. He lumbered to and fro, around the sofas, past the spilled tea, beyond the marble mantle with its blackened grate and stone lions carved in the corners. He muttered things beneath his breath, colorful sentences incoherent but trembling in his red face, and only after he'd made his rounds through the lounge three times, choppy English and Russian, did he stop and fist his hands behind his back and stare out the window into the snowfall. Thin, watery. It wouldn't stick. It hit the ground and melted, but it was still snow.

Sebastian could just _feel_ the others eavesdropping in the hallway. His mother's eyes sharpened, the condescending old hag. There was silence. The clock in the corner ticked the seconds away. The tension was thick.

"Yes, nothing you could do." His father's voice rumbled. The words weren't acidic, but they stung. "Because now _I_ have to go and beg for him back. It's never anything _you_ have to do. You're not the head of the family, you see."

"Father, can I—?"

"No." Lord Michaelis turned, sharply. He leveled a cold frown on his son, eyes narrowed. "No, you may not. I'm not through speaking. I can't even—_find the words_ to tell you what I feel at the moment. I'm furious. I'm sad. I thought you'd be different, Sebastian. I thought you'd be a better leader than Quinton, with your level head."

His mother shifted loudly, as if to remind her husband she was still there and favoring her eldest son. Both Sebastian and Lord Michaelis ignored her.

"Father—"

"You're instigating the feud by doing these things. That debauchery in October, this needless ambush. It's New Year's, for Christ's sake, can't you take a break? The old BLACK—they were nothing more than a street gang given too much power, and by the time I realized that, it was too late. They had filthy motives and were run with filthy morals. But you... Sebastian, I thought you'd be able to govern my gunslingers with honor, and respect, and _chivalry_. Does chivalry not exist any longer?"

"...I let them do it. I didn't speak up."

"_Goddammit, son!_" The painting—Ruisdael, _Bentheim Castle_—near the window jumped on the wall as Lord Michaelis slammed a fist against the wallpapered plaster. Sebastian bristled for the first time. "_Goddammit—_" Lord Michaelis sputtered again, face reddening more. "Sebastian, you're the leader! You _have_ to speak up! It's your responsibility. You're the sound mind that leads them, and if you're not sound enough to do so, _of course_ they're going to wreak havoc like a bunch of little punks!"

Sebastian wilted back into the sofa cushions, staring at his hands. He felt like a child again, callow and incompetent. His mother's eyes seemed to gain power; her stare grew more and more uncomfortable as it pierced into him. His ears burned behind his clenched teeth. _A bunch of little punks_. He was still the leader and that still hurt his pride. _Not sound enough. _Yes, why would a nineteen-year-old young man with _obsessions_ be sound enough to lead a pocket of organized crime?

Sebastian let out a slow breath, hoping to lose the tension inside with it. His brow furrowed, and he glanced at his father from below his lashes. He wanted to say, _I got caught up in love again, father, and I tried to be a good leader but the love won. The obsession, the thrill. And I was a bad leader because of it. I couldn't lead them. I wasn't sound enough. _He fidgeted, meeting his father's eyes. He couldn't say that. He couldn't admit that, especially not in front of his mother. It was like admitting failure. Instead, he whispered, "I was being selfish."

"If this continues," his father said, as if he hadn't heard, "I'll have to ask all of you to leave New London, like I asked the others. I'm sorry. I'm too tired for all of this. I've fought enough in my lifetime. I'm old and I'm tired. If you want to play war like a little boy, then you'll have to wait until you're the face of this family, because while _I_ am, I won't stand for it. There is _absolutely no appeal_ to me in starting fights for _absolutely no point_. That's just bad taste."

There was silence. Then:

"Think on it, my son. I banished Quinton. I can banish you if need be, as well."

* * *

_scene IV._

* * *

Madame Red's funeral was on a Sunday, at the church in Molching Court. Her casket was filled with white flowers and satin, the same blank canvas as her dress, so Ciel took a red rose from someone's bouquet and put it in her hair.

He sat in the front row. Teary-eyed relatives and friends reminisced together. Ciel didn't join them. He stared at his aunt's casket and wondered if his parents had been given a funeral, if anyone had found them in Lovers' Lane or if they'd been mutilated by the undertaker. He'd been gone for three months; he didn't know.

As the Father spoke and the choir sang, Ciel thought maybe he saw Sebastian loitering the iron-wrought fence outside the church, but he didn't care. Nobody was there when the interment was through with, anyway. There wasn't even the lingering scent of clove cigarettes.

Madame Red was not the only result of the ambush. There were three Phantomhives that were injured severely, two of them being members of the security team. The other was one of the elderly, from the countryside. The dining hall was ravaged by bullet holes, most of the good china ruined, all the polished wood of the table and chairs pocked and slivered. The upstairs hallway had similar notches and gouges in its corners. A sconce had been knocked off the wall. Statuary had been shattered, paintings marred. They let the culprit they'd captured go home New Year's night, when Lord Michaelis himself arrived at the front gates with weary eyes, asking peacefully. It turned out their prisoner was his nephew. There was no ball that night.

For the first two days, Ciel spent his time at the window in the library, a book in hand but not reading, staring outside. Elizabeth tried to sit with him at first, but after two hours of silence, she retreated and tried to find someone she'd have the guts to abide her worries in. Madame Red was gone, after all; she was even more alone in the house.

The Indians abandoned English to speak urgently in their melodic language, and they might have been the only members of the house that talked beyond whispers. Lady Middleford gave quite a few angry sniffs and clutched her daughter's shoulder when Ciel spoke enough to advise her and her family not to expect any news on engagement or courtships or weddings any time soon, because those things were farthest from his mind. The Middlefords took their daughter and returned to the countryside the next day, clearly feeling unsafe in New London.

It was a stretch of time that seemed a dream. Messengers from the Michaelis family were sent periodically, frightened and fidgeting on the front stairs as the footman relayed the Earl's intense desire _not_ to speak with them, and no number of books or notes or trinkets sent by the Michaelis heir was going to sway his opinion. These things were private matters, the messengers insisted. The public need not know.

Security was tightened around every wing of the house, the men warned about a handsome young man with long hair and copper-brown eyes, but there was no point. The son of Lord Michaelis was not stupid enough to come around yet.

These tentative attempts at peaceful correspondence were unbeknownst to the public, but a sensation of numb despair still seemed to fall and blanket the rest of New London. There was sudden stillness. Not peace, but gloom, souring the air, fickling it with tension. Quietness and anguish, as some citizens mourned and others couldn't shake the feeling that it was _not the right time_ to hate. Two weeks passed with no real trouble, no real fray between the families and their supporters, and it was a record in the last few years. It was an eerie state.

Ciel didn't have an appetite. Elizabeth was gone. He drifted around the house as walls and floors and furniture were mended, new frames and china ordered. He did not report the men on the list of names connected to St. Mikael's. He did not report BLACK. Authorities would not accomplish anything that would satisfy his thirst for revenge. He had to take care of things himself. He kept the list of names close on his person and refused to speak about his connection to the Michaelis heir. His uncle grew darkly frustrated with him, but could do nothing about it.

Ciel ignored his office during the day, wandering through the nooks and crannies of the house and lost in a state of melancholy, touched and not left alone by the black finger of grief. He didn't talk. He was silent and solemn. Nothing angered him. Nothing pleased him. He paused by windows and stared outside into the sun, into the night, into the drizzling sky, into the white afternoon. He took a bath and stayed in the water until all the fog from the steam had faded from the mirrors and glass. He walked around in his nightclothes, trailing his fingers on the embossed walls, feeling the posh carpet beneath his toes.

He couldn't sleep. He went into his old playroom and touched the globe and toys and books and old figurines; he stopped at his office and gawked at the broad doors, hands clasped behind his back; he sat cross-legged at the window in the women's boudoir, which had once been his mother's; he went into Elizabeth's old room and touched her porcelain clock, her footstool, her vanity table, running his fingers down the mirror and thinking about how pretty she was; he hedged every day, but finally went into Madame Red's room and laid down on her bed and smelled her pillows, went through her clothes and jewelry and every little trunk of her things.

Ciel went into his own room and curled up in his bed, where he closed his eyes and wished he wasn't alone, that he could feel the warmth of his dog at his toes, the swell of his furry chest as he breathed—or that he could run down the hall and into his parents' room and bury into their comforter while his father was a wall of protection that smelled like spicy cologne and looked like omniscient smiles, and his mother ran her fingers through his hair and warmed him with her angelic touch.

But that was not so. Not now, and not ever again.

* * *

_scene V._

* * *

He smelled the zest of clove cigarettes, brought up on the breeze and into his room where the balcony doors were cracked to allow some fresh air.

Ciel didn't acknowledge it. The butler gathered the day's dirty clothes, respectfully turning his eyes away as Ciel pulled on his drawers, toes curling in the white fur of the rug. He stood in front of the long mirror, staring at his reflection and smelling the familiar smoke and waiting patiently for the butler to be through and leave so he could go about his business. Narrow, boyish body, with lean muscles and white skin, the way it looked like his flesh was thin as paper, shifting over his ribs as he breathed. Might rip if he took too deep a breath. He was kind of frail-looking, he supposed.

The butler handed him his nightshirt and he wriggled into it, watching the tendons move, the shadows dance around his clavicle, the dark skin on his eyes. The smell of kreteks...

"Is there anything else, my lord?" the butler asked, and Ciel had to refrain from shooing him out. He urged politely, shaking his head in negation and drifting around the room to peek out between the curtains, wondering if he could see the trespasser beneath his balcony. He'd returned security to the normal lenience, and it had been an invitation.

The doors closed, and immediately, Ciel jerked the curtains to the side and opened the doorway to his balcony, slipping out barefoot on the stone slimy with snow and slush. Immediately, his feet were numb. Fingers brushing the head of a little stone gargoyle, Ciel craned over the railing of the balcony and met Sebastian's eyes as he looked up, an expression of poignant innocence on his face as if he'd never expected Ciel to come out.

Ciel motioned with his free hand, white fingers dancing in the moonlight, the glow from the manor's windows. "Come up here," he murmured, and the cold wind drove his hair into his face.

Without waiting for Sebastian's answer, he turned and walked back into his room, drying his feet on the fur rug. There was silence, as Sebastian killed the last of his cigarette and ascended the vines and lattice. Ciel moved to his bed, climbing up and sitting there to wait. Surrounded by goose-down pillows, amidst bedding of smooth cotton and comforters embroidered with blue and silver, and he sat with all the languid elegant apathy and complacent grace that he had when he'd worked for Father Kelvin, waiting for the next client.

Sebastian closed the balcony doors when he entered, but there was still a chill in the room. His very presence filled Ciel with a sense of desperation, as if he'd summoned a demon—and a strange amalgamation of guilt and relief, because he'd avoided him for so long, it was so soothing to finally let him in again. But Ciel's resolve was stony.

"Hello, Sebastian," he murmured. The fire in the hearth popped.

"My lord," Sebastian returned in greeting, nodding his head in his form of obeisance. His militia jacket hung open, and his narrow waist was alluring under the loose-fitting shirt beneath. High waist on expensive trousers, weapons belt and the leather straps of holsters. Sophistication and sin, standing there in front of his balcony doors. Sophistication, sin, betrayal and affection.

"Sit by me," Ciel insisted, patting his bed. "I want to talk."

Sebastian moved with the liquidity of one accustomed to caution, and his eyes were hard and critical, silently scrutinizing every single thing to try and piece together a possible outcome to the situation. The surroundings, Ciel's mannerisms, his bizarre disposition. Ciel smiled as Sebastian sat down, loving the way the mattress shifted with his weight. His toes curled in the sheets as his nerves began to tingle. He reached beneath his pillow.

"I don't want you to explain yourself," he whispered, and Sebastian kept his eyes. Ciel pulled his revolver from beneath his pillow, took Sebastian's hand and opened his uncooperative palm himself, then lifted his gun from his lap and placed it in Sebastian's fingers. "Kill me," he said, meeting his gaze again. "Kill me, if it's what you intended to do all along. Like my parents, right? To kill me would be to kill off the last direct heir of the Phantomhives, and then your family would win. You'd be a hero among your followers. That's what you wanted, isn't it? To get close to me, and then to bring my family down. So I'm letting you. _Kill me_."

There was a moment where the coldness in Sebastian's eyes left and he looked stunned, as if Ciel's nonchalant urging had thrown him off that much. And that made Ciel falter, made him wonder about everything again—and then Sebastian's fingers curled on the revolver, and he set it down at the foot of the bed, grabbed Ciel by the wrist and pulled him forward. There was a strange placidity about his face, replacing the bitter scrutiny.

"You love me," Sebastian said, barely audible below his breath. His eyes bore into Ciel, through his pupils and into his soul. Ciel squirmed, fingers twitching near Sebastian's. "You do. You just admitted it. If you didn't, you certainly would never have offered your life. You'd have killed me even before your aunt was stiff and underground."

Ciel's resolve wavered at his touch, his stare, his voice. He tried to protest, but the words all died at the back of his throat, coming out in choppy little grunts. Sebastian's words struck notes of alarm in the chords of his heart. Ciel smacked him, like a spoiled child, unable to get the words out and using his fists instead. Sebastian rocked with the motion. Ciel's brows knotted above harsh, narrowed eyes. Sebastian wasn't fazed.

"There were never intentions to follow in the shadow of the old BLACK," Sebastian edged out, rushed but collected. "Never. If anything, it was a childish game of tag, of hide and seek. And I didn't entirely grasp the..._gravity_ of what we were doing, either. So I'm sorry."

Ciel slapped him again, gritting his teeth. Sebastian's head wagged with it. He kept Ciel's eyes, mouth drawn in a terse line. His cheek was bright red from Ciel's smacks.

"Bastard," Ciel hissed. This wasn't what he'd expected to hear. Never mind that he'd wanted to hear it, it wasn't how it was supposed to happen. Things never worked out that way. "Liar. Kill me. Just spare me these dumb romantic tales and _kill me!_"

"It's not what you think." Sebastian's hand tightened on Ciel's wrist, jerking him closer. "I made mistakes. I gave my fellow members too much freedom, too much influence over me—when I should have been the one directing them. It was my fault, Ciel."

Ciel kicked this time, ruining the blankets. "Don't call me by my name!"

Sebastian craned in, searching for eye contact again. Ciel gnashed his teeth, his breath quickening with the pace of his heart. He hated Sebastian. He hated him for confusing him when he'd finally accepted the way things had to be. And his words—they seemed to reach right into him and pluck the truth out, no matter how well Ciel hid it.

"I never wanted this to happen," Sebastian whispered, and Ciel could feel his shivering breath on his skin. Could smell it. Could summon its taste from memory. Suddenly Sebastian pushed away, swung off the bed and stood, pacing to and fro at the side of it. Urgent, now. Scowling in impatience, in exigency. "I swore, over and over—you trusted me even when you knew my wretched name—why can't you just believe me _now_? You're so _stubborn!_ Our contract. You agreed to it. It can still happen, it'll still work. It'll be worth even more, now. See, they'll see that you and I have been peaceful together for the past few months, and that it _is_ possible for our families to live together in silence. Tonight, let's draw it up and present it tomorrow—"

Ciel clambered to a stand, uneven on the bed as he moved over and stood taller than Sebastian, glowering down at him. Scrambled for his hands, pressing them to his throat. "I did trust you! I _did_—but now I would rather be dead than to be betrayed again, to be abandoned by those I trusted, that I love—" He could feel his eyes burning, his throat tightening as he got worked up. And he'd had such a perfect plan, too, and Sebastian just had to come in and tip it upside down on him!

There was a slight scuffle then, Sebastian wrenching his hands from Ciel's neck and casting a frustrated hiss in his direction, Ciel almost losing his balance and slapping Sebastian again because he couldn't find the words; a wrestle on the edge of the bed, tangled arms and trembling fists, jerking elbows and thrusting bodies, like two children in their first fight in the schoolyard. Bitten voices, struggling limbs, fingernails catching in the fabric of clothing. Finally, Sebastian sent Ciel tumbling back to the blankets and followed to pinion him down. Ciel recaptured his bearings and flung his arms about Sebastian's shoulders—and then he felt the cold metal of his own revolver pressed against his skin.

His eyes widened. His mouth fell open, and his heart raced as his chest rolled with frantic breaths. Sebastian peered down at him, and it was obvious he was reading all of Ciel's shock as just what it was: disbelief, alarm, the first real panic, because he'd never expected to somehow end up pinned to his bed with Sebastian holding the gun to his temple. He'd never expected Sebastian to really accept the offer.

His fingertips twitched at Sebastian's neck. He couldn't talk for a moment—could hardly breathe. Sebastian regarded him coolly, a handsome gangster who meant business and business only, mouth in a thin line.

"Is this really what you want?" Sebastian asked, and his voice was calm and smooth. "To die? I can deliver it right now. I suppose it _is_ very much like you to want to die by the hands of your only real friend."

"You are my friend," Ciel confirmed, breathless. Swallowed, lips dry. Couldn't help but shake like a leaf with the gun pointed to his head, because he'd never—never been on this end of such a situation before— He rolled his eyes up, meeting Sebastian's. Took a breath and tried to compose himself, felt some hair fall further off his temple. He licked his lips. Sebastian stared down at him, waiting, as if for something in particular. Ciel didn't know what he wanted, but he knew what he was going to give him.

He let one hand sag down, off Sebastian's shoulder, and touched it to his face; Sebastian softened with it, and Ciel couldn't help but smile thinly as he felt the smooth skin of Sebastian's cheek. So pretty, clean-shaven in the morning and still soft by evening. He met Sebastian's eyes again, smile fading away.

"There will be no peace," Ciel whispered, and it hurt his heart to say it because he didn't want to see the disappointment in Sebastian's eyes when he shattered his beautiful peaceful vision. His fingertips shook, the muzzle of his own revolver cold on his skin. "Even if we draw up a contract, there will be no peace. Ever. It will be fake, a pretense, a shroud of play-pretend. Gangs will rip it apart again. We'll have no control. The people will forever want more. There'll always be hatred—like with God and the Devil, people are always searching for somewhere to place the blame. And better yet, there will be no peace inside of _us_ because nobody will ever understand what _we_ want."

"You've got to be the most cynical boy—" Sebastian's face sharpened.

Ciel's fingers tightened on his face and he echoed the scowl. "Don't you get it, Sebastian? Morally, you and I are ruined! We're disgusting. We're sinful. We're going to burn in hell, for so many transgressions! And we're _noble_. We're forever in the public eye and forever will be, and they don't care if we want to be left alone to each other. The only way we can be together is if our families stay divided in hatred."

"That's ridiculous," Sebastian hissed. "We'll find chances to be together whether they are or not. Whether people _judge us_ or not. Why does it matter to you? Is reputation that important—?"

"Jesus, Sebastian, we're the faces of our families! We have _responsibilities_—"

"I don't understand why that stands in the way—"

"Why give up what we want for the good of the people? They never do anything for us, anyway! Why just give up and say, 'Alright, it's a truce'? _I_, for one, will never have peace, Sebastian. The betrayed blood of my family will never allow me to have peace so long as it flows through my veins. And maybe, if there is peace one day, and you and I _do_ get what we want—maybe, I won't have peace even then, because every time I look at you, I'll grow to hate you for your family's wrongdoings. Or what if I avenge my family's hardships, and every time I look at you, I grow to hate myself in guilt? What if the treaty we draw up works, and the feud ends, and we can be together freely—what do I do with Elizabeth? What do I say to her? She'll be devastated if I tell her I don't love her, and neither of us will be happy in a forced marriage. There is no way, Sebastian. There is no peace. It does not exist. It will never exist—"

Ciel cut off into a sharp breath, eyes widening again as Sebastian's hand moved. But the sounds of the gun he heard were not of the hammer cocking or the trigger moving. It was just the click of metal as Sebastian lifted it, unlocked and swung out the cylinder, then dumped the bullets and the empty revolver on the corner of the bed above. Ciel stiffened, one of the casings rolling down and touching his knuckle—cold, smooth metal. Like the teeth of a monster.

Sebastian craned down, pushing hair out of Ciel's face and pressing a kiss to his forehead, just above his discolored eye. Ciel flinched back from it, closing his eyes tight. Sebastian's face moved, lips dusting his eyelids. The bridge of his nose. His cheeks. His chin.

Ciel wilted, and when he opened his eyes, they met Sebastian's where he hovered over him, the seriousness on his face no longer cruel and hostile, but heated, desperate. Human, and only human. Ciel tried to fight the emotion swelling in his chest, thickening in his throat, and he locked his arms around Sebastian's shoulders and pulled him down closer, giving in to everything.

They made love.

Robbing the cradle. That was what Sebastian was doing, wasn't it? Soft, sweet. Ciel was barely post-pubescent, all angles and raw craving, but hardly an innocent. So, then—it wasn't really robbing the cradle, so much as it was robbing a bed of red sheets and experience.

Bullets rolled in the bedding. Sebastian smoothed dark hair out of Ciel's mismatched eyes, and a shiver wracked his spine at the very sight. Alluring, aching for the moment—young eyes glazed over, vulnerable and yet somehow in control, hard and hungry like all of this was happening just because he allowed it.

They could have gotten caught up in things like the time Ciel spent under St. Mikael's Church, or the two of three girls Sebastian had ever been physical with, but they didn't. In the beginning, there was tension—there was guilt on Sebastian's end, and injured pride on Ciel's, and embarrassment boiled on the air as, gradually, the biting kisses eased them through. And maybe at some point, Sebastian would be able to tell Ciel that he knew where he'd been those three months, that he knew who had been the mastermind of the plan in the first place, that he knew what kinds of things he'd probably shamed himself with—but there was a smarter part of him, the lucid part of his brain unaffected by things like emotion and impulse, and it reminded him that Ciel had a pride he would carry to the grave, and if he was aware of those things...

Ciel didn't seem affected by anything like that, freed for the moment from the greedy clutch of the grudge that haunted him, immune to anything Sebastian could do that might be a potential trigger to traumatic memories. His fingertips were cold where they touched Sebastian's face. Sebastian kissed them. He rolled over, bringing Ciel with to straddle his lap. Oh, the tempting heat of the places between his legs.

Ciel didn't seem to mind the way Sebastian gripped his hips to hold him there. He sat up straight and prim, like a cat in the middle of a stretch, and regarded Sebastian down his nose like a prince. Sebastian smiled faintly. His jacket and his leather—_Hell Lord_, pistols, cartridges, holsters and weapons' belt—lay on the floor off the side of the big bed, beside his shoes. The dying fire sizzled. There was moonlight, and intimidating quiet, and the shift of clothes and rustle of bedding, tentative little breaths of calculation.

Grazing fingernails, shivers prickling the skin, the Earl of Phantomhive, grinding on his hips—the smell of him, the sight of him, the feel of him, the sound of him. It all surrounded Sebastain, the sensations surreal. And oh, the taste of him, too; he sat up on his elbow, pulling Ciel into an open-mouthed kiss. Ciel held to him by the collar of his shirt, and Sebastian shuddered. The was the press of Ciel on his lap, the tingling in all his muscles, blood rushing in every direction as his breath quickened.

Ciel arched his back as Sebastian ripped at the buttons of his nightshirt. Tugging, yanking, jerking, and finally wriggling it off his thin shoulders and let the cold air assail his perfect flesh. Pink mannish nipples, slender waist, smooth angles and juts of his body, perfect skin flushed and thin lips parted from their usual line of firmness. The warm pressure of his buttocks and thighs, taut on Sebastian's lap.

Sebastian threw him back to the blankets, dropping hot wet kisses down the sensitive places of his chest. Ciel gasped at it, vulnerable for one instant but already stoic again when Sebastian glanced up. To the pile of clothes gathering at Ciel's bedside, together they added Sebastian's loose shirt and Ciel's drawers. Lying there flushed red below him, tangled in smooth sheets littered with bullets, chest heaving with his breath and eyes animalistic in their hunger, Ciel waited. Sebastian hovered over him, heart racing.

Ciel shifted, and oh, he knew just how to move—he'd practiced—the body of a little boy and the airs of a sex fiend. He glanced at Sebastian demurely from below his lashes and licked his lips. "You look a little lost," he murmured.

"I've fallen in love with you," Sebastian admitted, breathless. The confidence in Ciel's disposition muted for a moment. He looked surprised, and then shuddered. "I have," Sebastian insisted, pressing kisses along a smooth white temple.

Ciel uttered a tentative sigh, running his hands down Sebastian's bare back, following the muscles, unfastening his pants at his hips.

"I know you have," he whispered, lips dry. "Sebastian, show me—"

They romped, kicking blankets off the side of the bed. Bullets lost in the sheets fell to the floor. Ciel led, amid fervent kisses and bucking hips, the hot press and awkward friction, the way an experienced set of hips shifted to ease the pain of penetration. Sticky skin, stiff sex—and tangled limbs, curling toes, gasps and muted cries and a childlike indulgence. Reckless, obsessive, cramping hips and tensed muscles. Ciel dug his nails into Sebastian's naked chest, scraping his nipples. Shuddered with his breath and wriggled down. The pleasure rolled his eyes back, stretched his spine, but it was innocent, honest. Sebastian's body twitched; his elbows quivered; his trousers stuck to him in all the wrong places with sweat, his sex throbbed—or maybe that was the way Ciel moved.

Voices, muffled and held at bay—grunts, whimpers, low moans of delight. And the pleasure, the blinding delight, refreshing like cold water in the morning and alluring like the dizziness of adrenaline. Incredible sensuality, innocent and insensitive all at once.

Sebastian came with sharp undulations, dampening the bed sheets, and although he was done, he kept going—numb, tender—but he was determined, and when adamant, he was a child again, and he didn't stop until he'd shuttled hard into the farthest places he could reach enough times that Ciel's body jerked in the delightful spasms only the most honest of orgasms could create. And just the brush of a thumb, the trail of two fingers, just a few moments' worth of pumping on the humble sex above and Ciel came a second time—stained his sheets and dirtied his stomach, and Sebastian pulled out of him and politely cleaned up the mess with a corner of the sheets.

And maybe—maybe those were tears shimmering in Ciel's eyes, or just a glaze as the heightened sensitivity declined. He shivered, trembling, but the love in his stare was obvious—heavy—overwhelming, and Sebastian buried into his chest and ignored how pitiful that was. He, practically a grown man, gunslinger and skilled gentleman, and he was blushing in the arms of a thirteen-year-old boy.

Ciel patted the back of his head and ran his fingers through his hair. And nothing was said, no questions were asked. They lay in silence, bodies buzzing. The fire had gone out. The room was blanketed in the quiet of the night, the peaceful breathing of the comedown. Blankets were kicked back, cool air dusting overheated skin. The clock in the master bedroom announced the time: midnight.

"Twice," Ciel whispered, but his head was tipped on the pillow and his lashes fluttering on sleepy eyes when Sebastian looked up, imploring. Ciel smiled, fingers limp on Sebastian's shoulder. Sebastian smiled in return. He sat up and fetched the blankets. He understood, still.

"Yes, twice," he murmured. "And both times, it felt absolutely blissful, didn't it?"

Sebastian held him, peering up at the notches and designs on the coffered ceiling as the need for sleep burned at his eyes, and he thought about everything without really thinking. The recurring item was, _Just a little longer, and I'll leave..._

Daylight broke, and the son of Lord Michaelis was comfortably tangled with Ciel Phantomhive in one arm and the other flung out, hanging off the side of the bed like a little boy passed out for a nap.

He was asleep.

* * *

_Love must precede hatred, and nothing is hated save through being contrary to a suitable thing which is loved. And hence it is that every hatred is caused by love._

St. Thomas Aquinas

The curtain will rise on Act V shortly.


	10. act V: scenes I and II

**rooks and romanticide.**

**Disclaimers: I do not own.**

**Rating/Warning: AU; T+ and M in specific scenes; graphic content such as violence, recreational substance use references, explicit scenes and mature themes.**

* * *

_act V: requiescat._

_scenes i and ii._

* * *

_scene I._

* * *

Hannah was a strong-looking woman. Full lips, an oval face, and a straight nose made up what appeared to be a staid maid's face, but there was a tenderness in her eyes that created a sort of gypsy-like beauty of it all. She had olive-colored skin and pale hair, and she was far from the frail petite birdlike things girls and ladies struggled to be. She was voluptuous and broad-shouldered, and there was something of an accent to her words but it was faint enough to be simple quaint detail. When Ciel had been younger, he'd overheard others gossiping that she had Russian in her (which was indeed an insult to a family such as theirs, when the Michaelis were of Russian blood), but he'd never seen the gentle hints at such heritage until he'd gotten older and understood everything. And as Hannah aged, it seemed to exacerbate this _Russian_ hardness, but Ciel didn't distrust her. His parents didn't distrust her. She was not a spy and never had been.

It was Hannah who had been his nursemaid, a quiet wallflower, an obedient servant. He remembered her face from his earliest of memories, in the background of foggy scenes of recollection, floating behind his parents, his aunt, other workers and servants. She had taken care of him: snacks, naps, playtime, a careful eye on the prodigious only son of the Phantomhives. Ciel remembered her sitting in the corner while he played. He remembered her looking sad when he disobeyed, maybe because she knew she'd be punished because how could she not listen to her young master, even though he was simply a temperamental three-year-old? Ciel remembered Hannah smiling with his mother, discussing just how good he'd been that day, what kind of treat he deserved after dinner; he remembered Hannah sometimes tucking him into bed when his mother was talking with his father in the den. Hannah used to make little flowers out of folded paper for Ciel and his friend, the Trancy boy. Hannah had been stern, but she'd never been reprimanding. As he got older, he tormented her with question after question about the world (most she couldn't answer), and managed to manipulate his way out of her watchful eye for an hour or two before she came bursting through the door, red-faced and panicked, only to sink down beside him and kiss his forehead and whisper something about _Thank God, thank God, the Lady would have killed me._

And it was Hannah who found them now, the son of Lord Michaelis and the last direct heir of the Phantomhives, tangled comfortably in expensive sheets as the January air trickled in through the fireplace and daylight pried through the curtains.

Ciel wasn't fully awake yet when the door opened with a weak whine of hinges. The silence that followed was quite loud enough. There was the echo of the household beyond the threshold, servants and family members stirring in the mid-morning. Pale hair in its usual plaits, Hannah stood wordless and staring.

_Shit._

Ciel's heart fell. For a moment he was confused, even though the dread was thick in his gut. He looked from Sebastian to Hannah and back, brow creased. Sebastian, waking up gently—hair falling across his temple, muscles flickering beneath bare skin, looking childish and soft as his eyes opened and then closed again, not yet past the horizon of sleep. And Hannah, staring.

Outside, a bird chirped. Ciel looked down the length of the bed, the way Sebastian's limbs were tangled with his own. He could smell Sebastian on his blankets. His body was warm and limp. Ciel realized with a jolt of the heart that he was not wearing anything, and he cursed himself immediately as the shock set in so deep he hardly felt it.

Easing upwards slowly, not wanting to wake Sebastian, Ciel sat and pulled a blanket around him like a cloak. His face burned. He met Hannah's eyes.

"Good morning," he whispered. His voice was scratchy. He blushed to know why, after the night of arguing and groaning. He glanced from Hannah to the bed, and back again, struggling to keep a mask of complacency although he longed to push her out of the room and start the morning over. This was a predicament he shouldn't have found himself in, no, no, not now, not ever, what would Hannah think of him?

"Good morning," Hannah returned. Her eyes were dark. She knew what was going on. Maybe she didn't know that it was the son of Lord Michaelis, but obviously it was a young man in his bed and Ciel was a young man, too, after all. This was not a nursemaid finding a child sneaking a snack, touching something he shouldn't, or telling a lie. This was a maid walking in on the head of the family in a scandalous state.

Embarrassment prickled his skin. He'd grown up before her and now he fell from pride before her, and perhaps there was something maternal about that. He didn't quite know what to say. He trembled with it, feeling the shame and the fear of what might happen next, and then, frantically, he decided to pretend nothing was wrong.

"Would you give me just a moment?" Ciel husked, begrudgingly enough.

"Of course, my lord." Without hesitation, Hannah bobbed her head, leaving the room. Her mouth was in a tight line.

The door clicked shut and Ciel scrambled back onto the bed.

There was a moment of struggle, of a panicked voice and sleepy grumbles, blankets ripped away and a round of vicious shaking, before Sebastian fully comprehended just what had happened while he'd dozed peacefully. He scrambled out of bed as fast as he could, suddenly very awake.

A kiss, quite a few worried kisses, and that was it, and over the balustrade and down the balcony Sebastian clambered while Ciel watched from behind the gargoyle at the corner and felt the emotion climbing his throat finally. Raw, painful emotion—humiliation, dread, regret.

There were love bites on his neck. There was dried semen in his bed. There were bullets on the floor. Ciel watched Sebastian monkey his way over the wall, disappearing from the Phantomhive property, disappearing from sight, with an ever-thickening lump in his throat. He didn't want to face this. He couldn't be cliché about it; he had to stay levelheaded. Maybe Hannah hadn't recognized Sebastian as a Michaelis. That would ease this death sentence of a situation quite a lot, wouldn't it?

In the corner of his room, winter chill still present even after he'd closed off his balcony, Ciel washed his face with the cold water in the basin on the sideboard. He dressed himself, carelessly, in a linen shirt and plain tweed, and threw on an old banyan for good measure. His hair was a mess. He opened his doors again and, coldly, met Hannah's stare from across the hall. She'd waited for him.

And if she knew or not the degree to which Ciel was veritably _screwed _at this point, she'd spoken—for there, at the corner, was his Uncle Clause, and his Uncle Clause did not look very happy at all.

Ciel thought, _Dear God, I'm dead._

* * *

_scene II._

* * *

Sebastian hummed on his way home, feeling the crisp winter air on flushed skin and loving it. New London was awake and bustling. Market stands were alive; streets were busy; men and women hurried on errands and work; church bells tolled elsewhere. He finished buttoning his linen shirt as he walked, militia jacket draped on his shoulders, holsters clicking and clacking, and he winked and smiled at those who met his eyes as he passed even if they didn't know he was the Michaelis heir, a young man simply wearing the Michaelis colors. He loved that about belonging to BLACK: he could carry himself something like a double agent, a man courting two reputations that might never collide.

The Michaelis manor greeted him with the smell of breakfast being prepared wafting through the halls. Servants hurried by through the vestibule, as insignificant as little mice, bobbing their heads at him as he entered and hopped up the stairs to find his father—who was in his office, where Sebastian had expected him, looking regrettably worse than he had been recently.

"Hey,_ chto novogo_?" Sebastian doffed his jacket as he strode into the office, passing granite busts and upholstered chairs to stoop and press a respectful kiss to his father's temple. "How are you feeling?"

His father chuckled faintly, reaching up to pat Sebastian's hand. He laid down the papers he'd been going through, reclining for a deep breath. "Older than usual. Do you know how much it cost me this time to keep everyone's noses out of this recent mess with Lady Durless? We're lucky the Queen hasn't involved herself, what with the second ambush on the Phantomhive household."

Ice spread through Sebastian's veins and he closed his eyes for a moment, searching for the proper composure. He looked down at the papers before his father, newsprint and bills and bundles of labeled bank notes. "Yes," he mumbled. "Sometimes I believe she's given up on New London. The authorities certainly have. They hardly intervene anymore, unless civilians are in danger. Perhaps we could declare ourselves our own country, Father, for as little as the Queen involves herself in our politics."

"That's possible," Lord Michaelis heaved a sigh that seemed far too difficult for him, "and it's a sad, sad world that it is so."

Sebastian was quiet, knowing that his father was well aware of the guilt this layered on him. He was lucky his father was still talking to him, he supposed, after the distaste he'd expressed the other night in the drawing room, throwing the tea set and pacing about in a rage. His mother, on the other hand, had taken to talking about nothing but Quinton again, and the entire household was tiring of her.

"Sebastian." Lord Michaelis motioned him closer, frown stern. Sebastian leaned down respectfully, lashes lowered. His father murmured, "I do believe those are the same clothes you were in yesterday. I see you are not so overcome by the recent turn of events to neglect your favorite pastimes. Who was she now? Oh, never mind that, I don't want to know. Please, go wash up before your mother notices."

Sebastian smiled faintly, feigning embarrassment for his father but really feeling rather glum. He didn't want his father to think him heartless, going out so carelessly after his blunder with BLACK. His smile faded quickly, however, as his father went back to his work and Sebastian caught sight of the newspaper at the corner of the desk. Below a rather bold and shameless headline, an article read:

_LADY ANGELINA DURLESS of the PHANTOMHIVE household, was slain in an attack on the PHANTOMHIVE family, reminiscent of the attack two years ago in which the former EARL and LADY were both slaughtered. The gang has been identified as a popular one, baring masks and much skill and monopolizing much good favor in certain crowds of New Londoners, but as of yet this gang is otherwise elusive and at large. The PHANTOMHIVE family promises to be getting to the bottom of it, and the murder of the current EARL's aunt and the former LADY's sister is only 'FUELING THE FIRE', a PHANTOMHIVE source declares..._

Sebastian smiled bitterly. He pointed at the paper. "They're catching on," he whispered. "Maybe BLACK should just _disband_."

"But that would only be too simple," Lord Michaelis sighed. There was no spark of frivolity in his eye about it. Sebastian's smile lingered, awkwardly, before it faded altogether and he left his father to his paperwork.

* * *

It was two days later that Lord Michaelis found Sebastian in his secret room in the library, the door opened by a very frightened Grell, and his father's face was redder than the appliqué on his collar.

Sebastian set his book down, eyes wide, feeling very much like a child again, wondering what he'd done wrong. But he didn't have time to greet anyone as his father's voice rattled the little room of books and privacy:

"_Could you tell me, son, why the Honourable Clause Herold has sent word that you were found in bed with his nephew, the Earl of Phantomhive? Could you explain to me why you were in the Phantomhive manor? Could you explain to me why you were in 'questionable positions' with their Earl? Could you please repudiate these wretched allegations, or would you like to join Quinton to never step foot in New London again!_"

A book fell off the table, not from Lord Michaelis's voice, but from the force with which he'd opened the door.

Sebastian was speechless. He gawked up at his father. Mouth in a thin line, he could think of nothing to say. His father seethed. He fumed. He stormed out of the room and through the library roaring something between gibberish and Russian, voice fading away into echo as he raged away.

Grell met Sebastian's eyes, his own bulging and his face white. His hair was up in one of those ridiculous ponytails again, his stare both doubtful and hoping for an explanation should Sebastian find one necessary.

"I've really messed up," Sebastian whispered. Grell's brow knotted.

"You've added insult to injury," Lord Michaelis said later, with his wife beside him and Sebastian sitting across the room. "I can't take anymore, son. This game you're playing with the Phantomhives—it's over. It's over, because I'm sending you to Yekaterinburg. I am treating you like a child because you are acting like a child. You will not come back to New London until I've forgiven you, and I can't promise you that will be soon."

Sebastian understood that his father thought that his being _in a questionable position with the Earl _was just another tactic at ruining the Phantomhives, and that pained him, that pained him so greatly, but he thought of the day his father had thrown the tea set, and his gentle fatherly threats then. Sebastian didn't say anything to argue or agree.

He packed more books than clothes. The blond one gave him a tight hug. The one with glasses smirked. Will's frown tightened. The Beast hit him a few good times for being "such a damn good lay", then promptly left the room as the emotion worked across her face. Grell gave him an ornate silver case of kreteks and a tiny smile, as if to say it was not the last time he'd be around.

His father watched him leave as soon as it was possible, and the driver of the coach could not be bribed enough to stop by the Phantomhive manor on the way out of New London. Straight to the barren Yekaterinburg it was.

* * *

_The day breaks not, it is my heart._

John Donne.

Act V will resume shortly...


	11. act V: scenes III, IV, and V

**rooks and romanticide.**

**Disclaimers: I do not own.**

**Rating/Warning: T+ and M in specific scenes; graphic content such as violence, recreational substance use references, explicit scenes and mature themes.**

**A/N: Last chapter is massive. It's been about a year since I started working on this, and a lot has happened that has kept the update schedule kind of erratic. Thank you, thank you everyone who has stuck around thus far. I hope you love it. **

* * *

_act V: requiescat._

_scenes iii, iv, and v_.

* * *

s_cene III._

* * *

_The son of Lord Michaelis and the Earl of Phantomhive? _

_BLACK, a gang of nobility? _

Oh, Hannah knew who she found in the Earl's bed. She saw him in the hallway, after all, when Madame Red had been gunned down and Ciel had assailed the man in question in a fit of cold panic. And if she didn't know then, she had perfect access to information about the Michaelis family, listening to Russian gossip in the marketplace, and if she knew, that meant Uncle Clause knew, too.

"I never expected them to be part of the actual family!" Clause cried, laughing only because it was easier at the moment to laugh than to yell. "Imagine that. An entire city, fooled by pathetic _masks_. How about this? Fuck the authorities. This will be the justice they deserve: I'll send to Lord Michaelis and tell him exactly what's happened. He should know about his son's debauchery. Why, if that's how they want to play, perhaps Lord Michaelis can _join me for a drink _and we'll see how our desires fall? And if we can't settle this like _gentlemen_, well, _then_ we'll whip out the guns!"

"Please, don't," Ciel hissed, pure miserable remorse and stinging humiliation sitting next to his uncle, who threw back scotch after scotch in the library. He already felt pathetic enough after allowing to his uncle that BLACK consisted of members of the Michaelis household. "Please, this is my mess, uncle. Let me clean it up. I know exactly how to end it, and if you stick your nose in it, there will be no justice for anyone—not for Madame Red, not for my parents, not for our pride, not for any of it."

"You know," Clause looked at his nephew through the thick glass of his tumbler, face troubled, "it's very hard to believe you after everything that's happened. Are you really man enough to lead this family, or have we been placing our trust in the hands of achild for so long, after all?"

Ciel closed his eyes, jaw tightening. His pride took the blow. He swallowed on a raw throat, fury churning within him.

"I'm sorry, uncle," he edged out. "But believe me when I tell you that _I know exactly how to end this_. I know how to take BLACK out, and I promise that I will do so." He sought out his uncle's eyes, fixing a stare with them as a hard scowl came over his face. A log in the fire shifted and popped, and Ciel's voice cut through the silence sharp and cold:

"Why do you think I was seducing him, anyway? Lord Michaelis's son, I mean. I know exactly who killed my parents, and exactly who killed Madame Red, and I'm going to take them all out. I was only doing these things with all the cunning of a _man_, dear Uncle Clause, and you of all people should understand that sometimes in war you must sacrifice a pawn or two."

That was more than enough to give his uncle pause. Ciel refused to give Clause the list of names involved with BLACK. Clause scowled and went on about how Ciel never told anyone anything, and how were they supposed to make any kind of progress if the Earl Phantomhive didn't want his family supporting him? Ciel knew that his uncle referred to the three months Ciel had been gone, and his newly stoked fire of revenge. But he still said not a word. And as if in reproof, Clause brazenly sent the letter to Lord Michaelis. Suddenly all of New London was ablaze with wildfires of gossip, and Ciel found it easier to shut himself into the house than to go out and face it.

Frances Middleford was enraged. She arrived in a whirlwind of skirts and austerity, stomping right past the footman and closing herself into the library with Clause to demand answers to all her questions. Ciel listened outside the doors shaking in anger, mouth bitten into a thin line as he glowered at the floor and felt the blood burning beneath his cheeks. Elizabeth's family already hated him enough, after all.

"And the engagement with my daughter? I assume that's off now, what with our Earl deciding to be _queer_ all of a sudden?"

"He's just grieving. He's been through a lot. He's confused. Listen, Frances, he's a mystery to me, too. He's depressed. He's a troubled, bereft little boy, for Christ's sake! He's just lost his aunt, and his parents before that! He'll come around. He'll _come around_."

Suddenly, being the Earl held no sway in things.

The world knew, but it was not really his uncle's fault. People gossiped, and gossip was sold to writers for New London's paper, and gossip traveled faster than truth around cups of tea and full market baskets and corners where little boys sold copies of the Daily Journal for just a shilling.

Whispers.

_Really? The gang's all part of the Michaelis family? Do the authorities know that?_

_That doesn't seem fair!_

_If they're of the Michaelis household—hey, Randall, do you remember that night at Barry's with BLACK? We were in the presence of Sebastian Michaelis and didn't even know it! _

_Ooh, look—there's the street fairy now. I can't believe he's got the nerve to show his face after being found with Lord Michaelis's son. _

_Maybe he did it on purpose. _

_It's like he's asking for more trouble—rendezvousing with that rat. No wonder his aunt's dead, now._

Ciel wanted to throw himself down and cry like a child. This was so unfair. He wished Madame Red was there, to council him, to shelter him—but he was responsible for this, and if anything, the memory of her haunted him with that word.

_Responsibilities_.

He had responsibilities. He was the head of the Phantomhive house, and he'd disgraced the name. He'd been found in bed with a young man, and he'd been found in bed with a young man who just so happened to be the heir of Lord Michaelis, who might be involved with the same gang that had broken into the manor twice. What else was to be added to that? Was there more blood on Sebastian's hands than that of Lady Angelina Durless?

Ciel tried to hold his head high, but his own household seemed afraid of him and Phantomhive supporters seemed confused.

He stopped reading the Daily Journal after seeing on the second page that the son of Lord Michaelis had been sent out of New London—and what a flattering sketch the paper's artist had made of the heir, truly beautiful in ink as he was in person. A very long week passed, without the scent of cloves rising up from below a balcony. When he woke up in the morning, Ciel could barely eat. It was a good day if he could keep his breakfast down or if he didn't rise from bed to make a mad dash for the wash basin on the vanity, already sick to his stomach. He could hardly conduct business, too irritated by more and more messages from more and more aristocratic families who were suddenly declaring themselves neutral in the world of Phantomhives and Michaelis.

The Phantomhive name was quickly becoming a joke, as the gang BLACK became something of celebrities. How had this happened? This was punishment for his sins, perhaps, all his wrongdoings, Ciel guessed—but if that was the case, _who would punish those Michaelis dogs_?

Ciel hurt.

With a black sense of despair thick in his chest with every breath he took, he went to his aunt's grave, and he went to his parents' sepulchers, surrounded by granite angels and deep green shrubbery about the urns and drapery and mausoleums, although Ciel had no idea if his parents truly slept coffered there or not. The last he'd seen them, they'd been tossed to the grimy ground of Lovers' Lane.

He had to do something. He knew that with a shudder of cold clarity through his heart. He had to do something—for his blood, for his pride, for his family, for _himself_.

And, brushing dark hair from his eyes beneath a bruised sky on a soggy day in New London's Highgate Cemetery, Ciel knew exactly what to do.

* * *

_scene IV._

* * *

"I'm really sorry for leaving you at the Phantomhives' that one night," Grell said, for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time again, Will ignored him.

The marketplace was full of noise, dirty children playing in alleys or sweeping the corners for a coin or two, babies crying as haggard mothers tried to placate them and buy some things for dinner, the rapid discordant racket of shopkeepers trying to convince passersby that their produce was fresh and should be bought in bulk. Voices, actions, commotion, the rattle of the infrequent coach through Blackchapel Street, which was where this particular market was and which coaches usually avoided for the mess of people thronging the pavement and cobbles.

Will walked stiffly, his face drawn in a tight frown that seemed to disapprove of everything around him. It was especially disparaging of Grell, but Grell was accustomed to that. The raucous market probably didn't help.

"I miss Sebastian," Grell complained, managing to sound offhanded about it although just voicing such pained him in the pit of his chest. It honestly did.

Will didn't reply. He didn't care if he was a satisfying companion or not.

They went to Carteret's, to pick up some ammunition orders, under the code of _Dorothy Walter's father_. Code was common practice for gangsters; sweet-tempered old Mr. Carteret couldn't tell a street gang from a gunslinger gang, and that was just perfect. Grell had a pleasant conversation with him, while Will counted out bank notes rigidly and grew restive quickly as Grell wished Mr. Carteret a good day.

"Why are you so antsy?" Grell mumbled, cool January wind refreshing on his face. They stopped for a Bavarian pastry, Will practically clinging to their packaged cartridges and bullets.

"I'm not," Will insisted. "I'm just sticking to orders instead of lollygagging like you so love to."

Grell snorted around his mid-morning snack, winking at the young lady who'd sold it to him. Her face was framed by curls of such a lovely shade of red. Grell made sure to flip his own hair seductively as he strutted away with Will, and then he stopped short and forgot all about the lusty-eyed red-haired girl because he picked up on the word _BLACK_ drifting in with the rest of the buzz of voices, and it came in clear enough. Like a dog heeding a signal, Grell looked about, then promptly went to acting inconspicuous. He ignored Will's scornful murmurs as he waited for Grell to tie his shoe, although Grell was untying and tying it again, over and over as he listened to the gossip of two disheveled-looking men a few yards away at the mouth of an alley:

"No, I heard it for sure, from Ishmael Roscoe. He's always got the in."

"That's what he said, though? What does that even mean?"

"Yeah, just _listen_—if you listen enough, it's circling through New London anyway. The head of the Phantomhives is calling out BLACK, that Michaelis gang."

The men were obviously members of a petty gang. They wore no silver or blue, which meant they supported the Michaelis house. Their holsters were too obvious, which meant they were amateur or mediocre. Will hardly had time to sputter in distaste before Grell was up and flouncing over to them, and had them both cornered in the shadows of the narrow passage between buildings.

"What's this about now?" Grell purred, offering them his most vicious, menacing smile.

It took a few threats, but they spilled information. Will suggested it had nothing to do with threats, but all to do with the men's dawning realization that they were speaking to members of BLACK. They let the men go and stood together in the alley, in a rather tense quiet as the gravity of the situation settled on their shoulders.

Earl Phantomhive, calling out BLACK? Well, the words the men had quoted were not exactly that—the challenge included something along the lines of _spineless paltry filthy rotten diseased dogs_—but that was beside the point. This was almost dire, and Sebastian was not in New London. Who was designated team captain, now? Certainly none of them were as equipped as Sebastian—

"I guess there's your answer," Will said suddenly, breaking the silence between them. He shifted with an icy clack of his weapon's belt. He glanced at Grell curtly, and Grell understood that Will was on the same wavelength as him: he was referring to Grell's earlier comments about missing Sebastian.

Grell didn't hesitate at all.

Yekaterinburg was a desolate, disconsolate place. It was cold, and dark, and dreary, a ramshackle city that had once been a booming mining town. Now it was where the scarce fortunate lived in greedy palatial homes high in the hills, and governed the poor with a less than diplomatic rule. Weathercocks rattled atop crooked buildings. The mountain range loomed in the distance. Children's faces were always dirty, just like the storefront windows and the crumbling buildings, and when Sebastian saw Grell, he didn't quite know what to think: like a messenger from God, or like a mirage in the desert?

But this was no desert. This was a clustered city with hard-packed earth beneath it, and Sebastian was smoking the last of his clove cigarettes when Grell, looking breathless and frenzied, came into the club below a rented flat that Sebastian sat in for luncheon.

"I almost didn't go past the old militia camp," Grell gasped as he sank down to sit before Sebastian at a dingy little table in the corner, where the sound of lazy club activity was a mere echo. There was a wrinkle in his brow and a shadow in his eyes like nostalgia, speaking of the militia camp where they'd grown up in a matter of weeks.

Sebastian flagged the waitress with the small breasts and narrow eyes, ordering Grell some vodka. Grell chewed his lower lip, seeming unsure of himself. He fidgeted, tying his hair back into a ponytail but doing so almost compulsively, which signaled to Sebastian that Grell was very nervous about something.

"My father doesn't want me back yet, does he?" Sebastian asked, slowly and without bitterness.

"No," Grell said, unhesitatingly, shaking his head with a childishly sad look on his face. "No, but you have to come back anyway."

Sebastian frowned softly, perplexed. The waitress brought the vodka. Grell threw back a sip and Sebastian leaned on the table, lacing his fingers by his plate of meat joint and bread. "I can't," he reminded gently, although Grell's hurried insistence on his return sparked a chilling sort of excitement in him. He'd been wasting the days away here in Yekaterinburg, doing absolutely nothing but reading and re-reading just so he didn't have to think or tend to the pain in his chest. Like a child in time-out he felt, and he despised it. He'd thought when he'd arrived that if he ran into Quinton somewhere, of some rotten twist of fate, he might become violent without strategy because he was so restive and mixed up.

"You have to," Grell said, eyes wide. He spoke low, as if talk like this was really dangerous in a city of exile. "The Earl's calling out BLACK at St. Mikael's Church this Saturday night. I think he means an end, Sebastian. He means _an end_."

For a moment, Sebastian was apathetic. Then an eerie shudder passed through him, and he couldn't discern from which emotion it stemmed. He met Grell's eyes, with uncertainty.

"An end," he reiterated, skeptically. But he understood. He understood Ciel much more than Grell ever would, and if Grell was picking up the sense that Saturday night meant _an end_ to the feud, then there was seriously something dark and pivotal stirring. Dear Lord, at St. Mikael's, too. The monument to heartbreak, shame, and trauma, especially in Ciel's soul. This was the crux, Sebastian realized. This was the beginning of what one might call the _crescendo_ of this entire tragedy.

"I saw him," Sebastian said before he realized the words had formed on his tongue, and then he frowned at himself for speaking without thought. Grell didn't understand, though. Sebastian sighed, running a hand through his hair and missing the expensive soaps he'd been able to wash it with back at home. He looked at Grell grimly, mouth in a thin line. "Two years ago, when Quinton and the others ambushed the Phantomhives—I saw Ciel, in Lovers' Lane. I'd wanted to do something to intervene, but I had no spine then."

"Bullshit!" Grell snapped. A few old men reading the paper over luncheon glanced over from their table. Grell blushed, but stuck his tongue out at them.

"I didn't," Sebastian insisted. "I had no mind of my own. Quinton and BLACK told me about their plan, and from that moment I could have done something to stop it, but I didn't. I sat there and they went out and killed so many people, and then delivered an innocent to the devil himself."

Grell looked at him as if he didn't comprehend. Sebastian didn't blame him. He licked his lips. "It was so bloody because of me," he said, and although it ached so terribly bad to know this, and worse yet to admit it openly, he spoke the words levelly and with all the elegance he could carefully exude. It was easy, almost. It was almost always too easy to wear a mask of nonchalance. Was that a bad thing?

"It'll be bloodier if you don't come back with me," Grell husked, and the look on his face startled Sebastian. There was a dark sort of understanding in his eyes, the faint appearance of pride and doom like a man going to war. It chilled Sebastian, and almost comforted him at the same time. Grell shrugged idly, glancing out the window as if it were too hard to look in Sebastian's eyes anymore. Sebastian frowned, wondering if he was staring at Grell too coldly. He probably was. He had a bad tendency to do so.

Grell went on, quietly. "...It's going to be far bloodier if you don't come back with me and talk it out with him. You're his _friend_, after all."

There was a moment of silence between them in which Sebastian knew that Grell understood the depth of his relationship with Ciel Phantomhive. And there was no condemnation, and no ignominy, and no judgment involved at all. Sebastian sighed, feeling discomfited. He didn't deserve somebody like Grell. He'd never asked for his friendship, and he did nothing to reciprocate it. He wished Grell would stop handing it out so openly because there was no way it would ever mean as much as it was worth.

"You didn't bring me more kreteks?" Sebastian asked, keeping his composure. He smiled faintly at Grell's chagrin.

"You have to come back to New London for them," Grell mumbled, offering a tiny chuckle in return.

* * *

_scene V._

* * *

The whole city closed up their shutters to that night, because there was going to be a showdown between gunslingers and children needed to be asleep when the bullets flew or they'd ask questions. People needed to be inside when the fray began, or they'd be in danger. Even petty gangs retreated, afraid to impose upon this rumored showdown. They didn't want to be involved; they were just innocent civilians after all, but each closed themselves up with a guilty curiosity because the air was volatile that night, and nobody knew why.

Within St. Mikael's, hardly a dust particle stirred for the stillness.

St. Mikael's was a beautiful church. Its Elizabethan roots were clear. It was somewhere between village church and gothic, its gables and spires, buttresses and smooth stone delivering a chilling beauty to it. And as a storm brewed overhead, so trite as natural could be at times, Ciel wandered between the gleaming wondrously rich woodwork and stalwart Flemish chairs, the golden altar where the communion font sat, the red candles, the Classical pediment and balconies up high where even a whisper of a footstep could echo back down upon him.

Indelibly, intrinsically Russian it was, almost gypsy with its iconostasis stacked neatly below the crucifix that peered down at Ciel with a harrowing sorrow. Was it wrong that Ciel felt no regret and no apprehension, looking into the molded face of Christ painted with blood and a crown of thorns? Was it wrong that he felt strangely peaceful, strangely protected in this place, that smelled of old burnt-out tapers and melting wax as all the little candles flickered, of incense and wine, and the timeless, familiar scent of old parchment, choir books, dust and age and moisture in the rafters?

Below these beautiful wooden floors, he'd been kept prisoner for three months. He'd been corrupted. He'd lost two kinds of innocence and gained all the dignity in the world, and wasn't that something? It certainly was. It was a numinous sort of analogy, wasn't it? Here, up above, the breathtakingly spiritual sanctuary with all the saints' faces like pacific ghosts, and down below—not on ground level, no, but below the ground, hidden under the streets of New London—had been a labyrinth of wicked chambers like the seven circles of hell. _That _was something, that parallel to heaven and earth and hell that was this church, St. Mikael's.

In the silence, Ciel imagined he could hear a choir. Stationed at all the most relevant corners of the sanctuary, doors and windows and around corners, were the members of the petty gang he'd brought with him to confront that wretched BLACK. Onyx, Devi, Warren, Hans, Lau, their names were. They each possessed uniquely extensive criminal backgrounds. They were perfect to hire for the night.

_It's all a rumor_, Ciel had told his uncle earlier, curtly, unable to look at Clause's face without becoming enraged. _Whatever you heard about me "calling out" the Michaelis family is all a rumor. I didn't know we were operating by gossip now, Uncle. Why don't you have some more scotch? _

That had quieted him, and Ciel snuck out like a real child tonight: pillows and things stuffed carefully beneath his blankets in the shape of his small body, weapons' belt and guns chattering as he quietly made his way down the edge of his balcony, cold fingers dirtied by the lattice and vines. Bundled up in linen shirt and thick militia coat, he was sure he looked as rugged as he ever had, and he met with the petty gang just outside the Phantomhive estate, and they made their way to St. Mikael's, that wicked, wicked place.

Ciel stood with hands clasped behind his back, peering at the Theotokos that sat amongst all the glittering candles in the dark of the church. It had been unlocked; it was always unlocked. Father Kelvin had made sure of that years ago. Ciel studied the Theotokos with concentration just short of trancelike, his head tipped to one side and lips parted as a gentle breath drifted past them. The flecks of gold in the sad religious painting glinted in the flickering light and Ciel was almost moved by it, except that it was Russian and therefore of the Michaelis family, and he hated it for its evocative beauty and luster.

There was sound, suddenly. Up, in one of the stripped galleries, a scuffle—the sound of guns being drawn, the scrape of movement, a muffled voice.

Ciel backed up to see the left balcony, hip bumping the edge of a pew to use as protection should he need to duck. His hand shot for his revolver and he squinted in the dim light of the sleeping church, but when he felt the recognition click, he wasn't really shocked deeply or anything. He'd expected this. Maybe not in an organized fashion, but he'd expected this. Wasn't that his entire point here?

The whites of Sebastian's eyes glinted in the darkness where he crouched, the perfect gunslinger, up in the gallery. Devi, who had caught him coming in through the painted-glass window there, could not see him for the chairs. Ciel could see him. Ciel smiled faintly. His heart fluttered and a sense of relief did not seem strange to him. This was what he'd wanted. _Sebastian_.

Ciel drew his revolver, leveling it with what he could see of Sebastian in the upper shadows of the sanctuary.

"Are you alone?" he asked, confident Sebastian would answer truthfully while at gunpoint.

"Yes," came Sebastian's reply, cool, familiar timbre drifting down to caress Ciel's ears. Ciel glanced over at Hans and Lau, one who lingered near the confessional partition and the other near the side doors.

"Patrol the outside," Ciel said quietly, gesturing with a brief nod. "All of you. Let me talk to the dog myself."

The church was still again after a moment of vague movement. These were hitmen and professional gunslingers. They knew how to patrol a building, and they were, after all, receiving handsome remuneration.

Ciel moved up the steps near the altar, standing there below the left gallery. He kept his weapon aimed, out of practice, and he looked up at Sebastian imploringly where he slipped out of the shadows and returned the gaze from above. He was like a raven, flitting about in the darkness. Or a ghost, or a devil. His grace and elegance was unsettling at times, as it was then, his face a perfect mask of acceptance as he stared at Ciel behind the revolver he held aimed.

He was in his militia jacket with the fur collar, his narrow frame apparent where his holsters and weapons' belt sat snug against it. His jacket was trimmed in the red and black of the Michaelis family, and with the fearlessness of an acrobat at a circus, he hoisted himself up and over the gallery balcony, and leapt down to stand near the altar with Ciel.

Ciel's heart gave a sickening lurch. He wasn't afraid of Sebastian. He was afraid of himself. He was afraid of the way he lowered his gun—the way he _trusted_ this Michaelis in front of him—and he was afraid that the emotion that worked through him in seeing Sebastian again after fearing his absence would contravene with the steady cold resolve he'd had for the last few days about this night.

Footsteps, and then Sebastian touched his face, and suddenly Ciel wasn't ruthless anymore, he was a mess of pain and love that came together into one tragic sensation and he let himself take a moment to breathe beneath the weight of it. He lowered his revolver and shrank forward, resting his head against Sebastian's chest. Standing tall, he leaned perfectly into the warm dip of Sebastian's chest, as if he'd been made specifically to do so. Again he thought he could hear the echo of a choir, ghost voices in the parish, but it was just a whisper of memory of liturgies from his childhood.

Sebastian smelled like cloves and dirt, and the metal of his hidden weapons. He hadn't even drawn his Hell Lord. He lifted his hands and Ciel tensed, but he just put a palm on Ciel's head, protectively, soothingly, and Ciel stared at the Theotokos with his ear to Sebastian's chest. He could hear his heartbeat and his breath.

"So is this an ambush, or is it just a battle?" Sebastian murmured evenly. He spoke so respectfully, as if this church truly deserved veneration. But it did, it did, the beauty of it did, not the corruption of it, and literally, above all its depravity it was still beautiful.

"I think you know what it is." Ciel licked his lips, fingers twitching on his revolver grip. "Where were you hiding, Sebastian?"

"I wasn't hiding. You know very well I wasn't hiding."

"I faced it like a man and you ran away."

"That pride of yours will be your downfall."

"Sebastian, I knew you'd come if I did this."

"Again, what are you planning on doing?"

Ciel met Sebastian's eyes, straightening up. He didn't mean to sound cold and pitiless, but that was what he was. That was what he _felt_, at least. He shrugged idly beneath Sebastian's hands and in the otherworldly silence of the St. Mikael's sanctuary, his voice was cool and composed:

"I'm going to kill them all."

Sebastian's mouth crashed into his and at first Ciel backed away, startled, but then Sebastian chased his kiss again and held him crushingly tight to his chest, there below the doleful face of the Christ, the tall crucifix above the altar, whose molded face seemed to be full of pity now. The candles danced and the echoes of metal as Ciel struggled in Sebastian's grip, his gun still clutched tight in one hand, bounced off all the eaves and resounded back to them.

The kisses were rough not out of lust but out of desperation, Sebastian's lips hot and soft, but inside, slick and cool. The collocation of these sensations was utterly delicious and Ciel couldn't get enough of it. He didn't know what to do with his revolver. He couldn't put it away, but he'd hear if the petty gang was apprehending somebody outside the little church anyway, so as they backed into one of the chairs near the altar and Sebastian sat down heavily, fingers curled in Ciel's lapels to prevent interruption of the kiss, Ciel laid his revolver down on the communion table and climbed onto Sebastian's lap, reciprocating the affection with just as much violent fervor.

It hurt to kiss Sebastian—it hurt his lips, because the kisses were hard; it hurt his pride, because this wasn't what he wanted to do tonight; it hurt his heart in a grand way, because _it was Sebastian, oh it was Sebastian after so long_; and it hurt his soul, because the face of the Christ on the crucifix above them stared down in pity and the tristful face of the Madonna—the Theotokos, rather—peered at them with that omniscient sorrow of hers, and Ciel dreaded each passing second for fear a gunshot would sound to alert him of the presence of BLACK. They were coming, after all. It was inevitable. These moments were few.

He was sinful, sinful, errant, a bad boy, dirty, depraved, debauched, blasphemous. Sebastian yanked his Phantomhive coat off and tossed it aside, running his hands obsessively up and down Ciel's back and shoulders, chest and sides, as if he'd never before felt him in his life and would never again be able to.

There was a terrible ache in Ciel's chest that he could only descry as both despair and hope commingling together, something wholly intimate and indescribable. It was a wretched feeling, one he didn't feel equipped to handle, and it left him trembling as Sebastian's mouth trailed down his neck with warm kisses and his hands spread across his thighs, a desperate grope, a covetous clutch. Their hips moved together, a natural rhythm as their mouths met again and Ciel ran his tongue out along Sebastian's lower lip, and he could feel the heat between Sebastian's legs, the heat and the pressure, and he shuddered in knowing that it was there for him. Sebastian's fingertips dipped into the waist of his trousers, temptingly. Despite the adrenaline—or maybe _because_ of the adrenaline—dormant muscles began to stir and quicken. He thought to himself that yes, if this kept going on like this, if they had enough time to do this, he would very well give himself to Sebastian right there below the mournful painted eyes of the statue of Christ and the other effigies of deities.

It occurred to Ciel suddenly, in one cold, clear current of thought, that this was a dire distraction.

It pained him to jump off Sebastian's lap, but that was what he did. It pained him to whip up his revolver again and look over the top of it at Sebastian, but he did. He knocked down a candle, thankfully unlit.

The shiver of his hand made his gun chatter as he held it, so torn between glaring and sinking to his knees that the normal composure of his face had become an emotional moue. He could feel it. He couldn't change it.

"Where are they?" he husked, scowling at Sebastian. His heart ached.

"Who?" Sebastian replied, calmly enough, but there was a sudden shadow on his face. His eyes hardened, simple dark stare that expressed nothing but the reflection of dancing candlelight. His mouth was drawn in a tight line and he sat far too casually there, arms propped on the chairs beside him and legs crossed.

"BLACK," Ciel hissed, gesturing with his gun. Sebastian didn't seem worried to have it pointed his way, except for a subtle spark in his eyes that might have been trepidation.

"I don't know where they are," Sebastian said slowly, carefully, as if speaking to an unpredictable child in the midst of a tantrum. "I came here alone."

"How did you hear of it, then?"

"You don't trust me, Ciel?"

"I don't know. _How did you hear of it_, Sebastian?"

Sebastian stared at him, coldly, as if he were really going to refuse answer—and then he licked his lips, stirred stiffly, and murmured, "Grell came to Yekaterinburg and begged me to come reason with you."

"So this is all a ruse!" Ciel surmised, laughing loudly in disbelief.

Sebastian was immediately offended. He stood up, towering over Ciel, unafraid of his weapon again. Ciel quieted instantly.

"I was hoping," Sebastian edged out, looking nothing but the manifestation of determination now, "that my disclosing of Grell's _begging_ me to come back would convince you of BLACK's inability to contend against you. I'm sorry, not their _inability_, as we're all the best gunslingers you'll ever fight, but their _incapacity_ to contend against you. They don't know the depth of your grudge. They don't shoulder the guilt of it. They're _ignorant_ of it, don't you see? And Grell risked his integrity—his freedom—to beg me to come back to _reason with you_. If that doesn't show you at least a glimmer of BLACK's true colors, _I don't know what will!_"

Sebastian's voice echoed off the eaves of the church. A silence fell, thin and dangerous. Ciel heard only his heart thundering in his ears, his breath as it slipped from his lips, and the pop of a candle wick or two as the crucifix gawked at him. His skin crawled. He shook. He felt as if he might explode in a vicious outburst that he couldn't control, and he felt so tiny and callow beneath the Christ's painted eyes so he lifted his revolver and shot its effigy face.

Plaster rained down on all the little candles, and immediately after blowing the face of Christ to pieces, Ciel understood that he was damned. He was irretrievably damned. He'd never imagined he'd feel such regret for shooting the face of a damn statue, but it was so beautiful—so placidly sad—and he was damned. They were all damned.

Sebastian looked a little panicked by Ciel's sudden attack on the crucifix. He stared at Ciel, eyes hooded and clouded with his thoughts. He reached out. Ciel didn't avoid his touch. He drew Ciel close and pressed a kiss to his temple, whispering, "This needs to end—"

There was no moment of resolution there. There was no moment of peace amidst the tumult that seemed to hold every one of them in its grip. There was love, of course, but it was part of that maelstrom, and as if in answer to the gunshot that Ciel had fired at the face of the crucifix, which now lay scattered about the altar, another round of gunshots came in response, and Ciel understood immediately that BLACK had arrived.

The petty men he'd hired knew they were to let BLACK into St. Mikael's, and that they did. Standing by Sebastian patiently in the flickering light beneath the ruined crucifix, as if waiting to start a diabolical mass, they must have looked like evil angels to the Michaelis gang. BLACK slipped in tentatively, weapons drawn and smug suspicion on their faces. They drifted in and out of shadows, slants of light that illumined them momentarily before they were lost to obscurity again. They were wonderfully trained, but their attitudes were irreparable.

The light danced. Ciel felt like he could recognize them all: the one with red hair like a lion's mane, who Sebastian called _Grell _in a faint whisper as he walked in; the female one, voluptuous but unladylike as ever in trousers (and this gave Ciel a sting of pain, in memory of his Madame Red); two with dark hair and glasses; one with a headful of golden locks. They came without masks, bearing instead rotten proud audacity. Within Ciel's chest was such a tempest of emotions—rage, hurt, tenderness, pride, hate—but seeing them brought his vicious determination and loyalty to the forefront, that burning, begrudging odium he'd stoked for so long under the guise of _revenge_.

"Good evening, BLACK," Ciel said kindly enough, except he spit out the name of their gang like it were poison.

"The Rook—" the female one cried suddenly, sounding surprised as she boldly approached the altar. Ciel's hand tightened on his gun and his muscles tensed. She gestured with her chin, scowling at Sebastian. "What are you doing here, Rook? I thought you'd been told to _flit away_ from here."

"Beast," Sebastian said, and Ciel realized with disgust that they had code names for each other. "'Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary...' Well, you catch my drift."

The girl snorted. One of the men with glasses cocked his gun, ready to fight already. Everyone seemed to bristle when this one spoke, voice clear and concise. "I'm tearing up at this reunion, but can we just get to what you want, Earl? Don't waste our time."

"Excuse me," Sebastian hissed, hopping down the steps of the altar to stand between Ciel and BLACK. "I think you're forgetting who is leader, Claude. Unless, of course, you've all decided I'm no longer sound enough, but _he_ is?"

"That's not it," Grell said. "He just feels freer to be an asshole, with your absence."

"Shut up, Lion," the blond one hissed. He hardly looked out of childhood yet, a crazy vigor about his youthful face and a lithe grace to his long body. Ciel felt like he recognized him, a shivering but inhibited lucidity. "Nobody cares what you think."

They weren't in any condition to be a gang. They hated each other. Ciel was in awe of this. He laughed incredulously. He cut through their paltry disagreements, crying out, "Do you know what happened the three months after my parents were killed?"

They all quieted. The death of the former Earl and Lady Phantomhive was a common enough history, especially to them. Sebastian looked absolutely terrified of what Ciel might say next, and Ciel was content.

In the strange way of gangsters, it was time for wits and words to be exchanged without the fear of a gun going off, because that would err against the tacit, internal code of gunslinging honor. Ciel paced beneath the altar, kicking some scattered plaster around. He stopped, momentarily stricken by the sight of Christ's eye in a chunk on the floor. He picked it up and stared at it, then put it respectfully by the few glowing candles.

"My parents died," he announced, keeping his periphery and trained sense of caution and perception keen. But there was almost no need. BLACK was listening to him with an eerie sense of veneration, patient or objective at the very least. Overhead, St. Mikael's bells should have tolled for the hour, but the rector and bell-keeper had been chased out earlier. Ciel graced all the others in the sanctuary, scattered amongst the pews, with a cold gaze as he said:

"I found them in Lovers' Lane, and then the Joker took me and gave me over to Father Kelvin, here below this very church."

The name _Joker _seemed to stir some sort of emotion in nearly each of them. Ciel didn't plan on giving a long heartfelt story about the tragedies these dogs had bestowed upon him, but he wanted to shake each member of BLACK to the core before he killed them. It was an outlet for the turmoil swirling so thick inside his chest and it felt good to edge the words out effectively.

Ciel shook his head, frowning in a travesty of disbelief and sadness. However forthright, whether they cared or not, he couldn't help but be coldly dramatic about it. It felt so good to be a few bullets away from revenge.

"I never told anyone about what happened to me at Kelvin's—but you all know, don't you? You know about _all_ the boys and girls, the lambs brought to slaughter in that putrid hell of a brothel. Leave it to you Michaelis to fail in the creation of sin, too. But where did the kids go afterwards? They certainly aren't there now, are they? Oh, are they grown prostitutes, now? Do they run their own business of beds and sins? No, I'm sure they were all sent away, with Father Kelvin, too. Weren't they?"

Ciel uttered a resentful, caustic laugh. Venomous, almost. Pernicious, definitely. The mismatched members of BLACK stared at him. "No," he iced out, "I'll never alert authorities of what happened here below St. Mikael's. Why tarnish my pride that way? No, nobody ever asked me. And either way, I refuse to talk about it. All anyone needs to know—and all, indeed, anyone does know—is that thanks to those three months, I am even more determined to find my parents' murderers and _kill them_. And do you know where that led me, my friends?"

Sebastian stood with a grave sort of respect near the balustrade of the altar. He regarded BLACK as if to say, _This is what we are up against_, but Ciel didn't see that. He saw the looks of fury and impatience, of shock and fault on the faces of the gang in front of him, and he stood close to the altar where the crucifix hung just in case he had to dodge from a spray of bullets.

Ciel glanced at Sebastian, smiling softly. He didn't mean to be invidious towards Sebastian, but he longed to enrage BLACK. He longed to hurt them before he shot them. "Somehow, looking for the culprits led me to St. Mikael's again, and eventually, to BLACK. Your Lord Michaelis is very good at covering mistakes. Do you know how long it took me to finally confirm that the BLACK who kidnapped me was the BLACK who killed my parents? Oh, I always knew, but I can't exact revenge _recklessly_, you see."

Grell burst forward, lowering his weapon. He looked utterly distraught. Ciel aimed his revolver out of reaction, but Grell didn't look in the least dangerous. "_Aren't you listening to yourself_?" he cried, laughing for all the disbelief written across his face. "You just admitted that the BLACK you want isn't here!" Grell turned, beseeching Sebastian now. "Sebastian, I thought you were going to explain that to him!"

Sebastian's face was dark with rue and an inscrutable silence. It was unyielding, and inhospitable. Grell looked panicked. The rest of BLACK looked perplexed. Ciel was confused, a little intrigued, but he didn't care. His heart pounded. He had BLACK before him. He raised his voice, before anyone else could interrupt:

"I'm giving you an option tonight, BLACK. _Kill me now_, if you truly want to win this feud between our families, or accept conquest and kiss my feet before _I kill you_ and _burn your bodies with St. Mikael's tonight!_" He shouted with such vehemence that his voice cracked and wavered. His words echoed.

Suddenly there was chaos in the sanctuary.

"Sebastian, you were supposed to tell him!"

"I didn't have a chance to say it again—"

"_Collusion! _There's _collusion_ between the Rook and the Lion!"

"Shut the fuck up, _Spider_—"

"BLACK was involved with it? _BLACK did it_?"

So they hadn't known about Joker and Quinton and the others. Ciel laughed wickedly, tickled by this. He looked at the girl, who seemed particularly distressed, and before he even realized he was capable of such nefarious spite, he said tenderly, "It's really a shame that Joker is dead, now. I could always tell he didn't like Father Kelvin or the whole plan, and he was so kind to me those three months I worked below this church. He was so very kind, and a patient lover, too—"

The girl—had Sebastian called her _Beast_?—sprung forward, shrieking something in Russian and whipping out two ornate revolvers, which she aimed at Ciel recklessly. Sebastian dove over and stopped her with an outstretched arm, but she was too hysterical to fire. She continued to scream.

Suddenly they all spoke rapidly in Russian, Grell, the Beast, Sebastian, the others—that familiarly coarse but beguiling clip, and Ciel fought a cringe. He saw Father Kelvin's again, the gross Russian decadence, the sound of everyone shouting in that ascetic tongue, the violent stutter of gunshots, and the way it felt to run away and leave those things as echoes. But here they were again, swirling about him, and for a moment Ciel found it very difficult to breathe. The red-haired one's voice carried:

"Sebastian, _you were supposed to explain to him that it was Quinton and you couldn't stop him_—"

Ciel cocked his gun and stormed to the edge of the altar dais, pointing it at Grell. His theatricals had blinded his judgment and it came back to him, in one shuddering rush. "_You killed my aunt!_" he howled, through all the other strained voices. "You killed Madame Red!"

Grell stared with wide eyes, but there was no terror in his face, just a gunslinger's critical thinking and apprehension. His eyes were bright and his face stony.

The blond one they'd called the Spider hopped up on a pew, slicing through all the voices with a manic laugh. "Wrong, Earl! I'm the one who shot those fatal bullets! I shot the Madame and did you know that I remember her from when we were younger and I came to your manor to play?"

Ciel uttered a helpless growl, feeling a sharp stab of betrayal in his chest. Yes. That was where he knew the blond one. He'd been a playmate years ago. Ciel descended the dais and hastened to beat his fist against Sebastian where he stood there with his arm tight around the Beast.

"_You stole my friend!_" Ciel spat, scowling viciously.

"He stole your friend!" The blond one danced around on the pew, waving his guns.

"_You killed Madame Red!_" Ciel spun on his heel, mayhem bursting inside him. Emotion became liminal and all he could focus on was action. He shot at the blond one, whose name he suddenly remembered was Alois Trancy, but he didn't hit him. Alois dropped off the pew and crouched behind it to fire back. But he didn't. Sebastian began speaking to him in rapid Russian again, and Alois began to argue back. It seemed like a vicious argument. Everyone was shouting again, an incomprehensible whirlwind of voices—screams, hisses, echoing, that invisible choir that echoed in the back of Ciel's head.

Ciel felt cold. There was methodical chaos inside him and commotion in the sanctuary, and Ciel pierced the confusion with a single strand of desperate clarity. A chill zipped through him, he didn't care, he didn't care, he wanted to see them _dead_, dead like his parents, dead like Madame Red, dead like his soul.

He pointed his gun at the red-haired one, the one named Grell, the one who'd told him he was attacking the wrong group—and then there came the familiar, chilling sound of a trigger being cocked, and it was very close to his ear.

Ciel's eyes widened.

The muzzle of the Hell Lord was against his temple and his heart gave a sickening thud. As if in respect, the entire sanctuary fell quiet. A number of intense stares fell upon them there at the front of the pews. Ciel drew a wavering breath, looking up.

Sebastian stood with his gun to Ciel's head. In the candlelight, Sebastian looked as young and tortured and sad as the face of the Christ had before Ciel shot it.

Tears stung the backs of his eyes, emotion thickening in his throat. His breath came in cold bursts, panicked and full of adrenaline. "So this is how it will end, then?" Ciel whispered. He looked up at Sebastian, brow knotting as his vision doubled, and then trebled. Beautiful Sebastian, his handsome face and his dark depthless eyes that expressed nothing but love sometimes, and how was that possible? How was it possible for a trained killer to be so full of unquestioning love?

Funny, how he thought about that now, with Sebastian's gun to his head a second time.

* * *

Sebastian knew his team members.

He could tell by the looks in their eyes, glazed over by a ruthless sort of emotion. Sebastian was certain—he would bet money—that outside St. Mikael's then, as the night deepened and the brumal gales swirled outside the tristful church, the petty gang Ciel had hired had been slaughtered and were either dead, unconscious, or miserable in the ice and snow as their body shut down from the cold or from the bullet wounds. No, this night had never had a chance to end well.

Within the warmth of St. Mikael's, candles flickering and a soft ringing to the silence like someone was watching, Sebastian stepped ever closer, feeling the rigidity of Ciel's body and touching a hand to the other side of Ciel's face. The words _Hell Lord _on his gun looked so tragic next to Ciel's beautiful face, that dark hair and those miscolored eyes, and the soft delicate elfin features of his face. But his expression was not delicate; no, he looked the vessel of a heartrendingly old soul, youthful appearance and cold wisdom behind the windows of those intriguing eyes.

"As the head of BLACK, I should kill you." Sebastian spoke slow and even, words carefully measured although his heart was pounding at such a clip he thought it might burst. He was surprised his hands did not shake. "I told you once before, I suppose it _is_ very much like you to want to die by the hands of your only real friend."

Ciel looked in complete shock. Sebastian could sympathize. He wondered what was running through the minds of his team. What did BLACK think, truly, now that so many things had come to light? What did they think about Sebastian's merits as a leader? About Sebastian's involvement with the prior BLACK? About Sebastian's involvement with the Earl of Phantomhive? Did they think he'd shoot him here, now, end it all in front of them again? How terribly ironic it would be—was it irony?—that his brother killed the former Earl and Lady Phantomhive, and tonight BLACK might again watch the son of Lord Michaelis murder the head of the Phantomhives. Was that what they were thinking?

Surely, by the look in the blond one's mad eyes, the cold impatience on Claude's face, the tragic uneasiness of Grell and Will, the panting confusion of the Beast as she shifted to and fro and looked as if she were torn between crying and screaming with everything that had been said. She had always been so close to the Joker; her heart must have been torn to pieces discovering his hand in the catastrophe of two years ago, and his deplorable actions with Ciel Phantomhive.

"'Tempt not a desperate man,'" Ciel whispered, slowly, breathlessly, and Sebastian bristled. He was quoting, because he knew Sebastian's love for words. And the moment in which he met Sebastian's eyes again with such tenderness felt like eternities of raw beauty, but it was short-lived. There was but a brief rustle of linen as Ciel shifted his aim, and then fired a gunshot in the direction of Alois Trancy.

It just barely missed Alois, biting slivers of wood from the pew above the stiff velvet upholstery. Sebastian had fought with Alois enough times to know exactly what would happen next, and as if in a demonic waltz with death itself, Sebastian hooked an arm around Ciel's neck and spun him along, evading the bullets as Alois's gun went off. Sebastian fired back, removing his Hell Lord from Ciel's temple. He shot to scare the blond one, but the blond one just scowled at him from between the pews like a wild animal.

Those gunshots were a crux. The discordant staccatos and deafening pops meant the beginning of the end, and Sebastian thought, _Indeed, tempt not a desperate man_.

The real showdown started. Light reflecting off the barrel as Ciel aimed for the Beast sparked attention and the Beast shrank into the shadows, firing a round towards the altar. With his arm around Ciel's neck, Sebastian staggered backwards and sank down into the corner where the Theotokos and prayer candles were, and the little alcove provided a bit of protection as they wriggled into the dark corners. Minds fell to deeper instincts and the tension snapped.

It was conversation in bullets, simple enough. They ricocheted. They chipped into the beautiful ceiling and woodwork. Candles shattered. The Doric columns and organ case were marred. The organ played eerie notes as if possessed, as somebody shot into it on accident and hit the strings inside. All the old sixteenth-century fixtures of the parish were going to be destroyed, and the lingering smell of altar incense was present, mixing with the gunpowder.

Below the prayer candles and religious icon, Ciel whispered, "Why, Sebastian, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were protecting me."

"You're mad," Sebastian seethed into his ear. "You're absolutely mad. There's a window in the eastern gallery we can escape through, and we can try this again—"

"I am not signing a contract with you."

"Ciel, for the love of God—"

"_I need release from this hatred, Sebastian!_"

Sebastian didn't shoot. His body was stiff and cold with the adrenaline, but he hardly felt that. He crouched and listened to the sound of the gunfight, the sporadic attacks and the rustle of people slipping to and fro stealthily. He looked up at the painting of the Virgin Mary and the baby Christ, and he thought about Ciel shooting the face of the crucifix as a bullet grazed across the surface of the Theotokos, all the candles flickering as it zoomed by. He could feel Ciel's body moving, against his leg, and perhaps it was because Sebastian was accustomed to the smell of gunpowder and the ringing in his ears from the sound of it going off in a barrel, the almost merry jingle of ammunition as revolvers and pistols were reloaded, but he thought that the warmth and twitch of Ciel's body was very tempting and here, below the painting and the candles, he could take Ciel again and again right on the velvet prayer stools. What a creature he had become, what a monster of a man, to think something like that during a gunfight. Cold metal and murderous intent had become normal to him, then.

Sebastian looked at Ciel again, the brutal and terrifying shadow in his miscolored eyes. There was no meticulous Earl here, just a boy with dark cold desperation, shooting a gun with exquisite aim like he'd been taught to. He looked innocent and feral all at once, no elegance, just the lethal intent. Sebastian wanted to smile. Yes, there was a parallel here, wasn't there? This gunfight between them was like the gunfight of their souls, the internal war between right and wrong and death and salvation. Because Sebastian loved the monstrous, homicidal look on Ciel's face and the way his body twitched with the gunshots. He loved it. He desired it in a desperate, carnal, primal way. He was hungry for it. Ravenous. Sex.

Alois was laughing again, a maniacal laugh. It echoed around the ruined sanctuary. Sebastian wanted to hit him for it. He tried to see around the sanctuary, where everyone was. How was this fray supposed to end? Were they going to run out of bullets and come to an impasse, where nobody knew what to do next? Would BLACK not be satisfied until Sebastian did something drastic and regrettable?

The eerie silence between frantic shooting was shattered by two loud shots. One hit the icon of the Theotokos, scraping across the gold leaf of the Virgin Mary's face. The second didn't seem to hit anything, but Ciel went tumbling into the Flemish stand with all the prayer candles, and the most frightening part of it was that he didn't make a sound.

_Ciel._

Sebastian hardly understood what happened next. It was something of a blur. He sprang up to his feet, acting wholly on impulse, and by the time he blinked to clear his vision and understood that he had done something, his ears rang and he watched in the upper opposite gallery as Claude fell over the balustrade and hit the sanctuary floor, his face and neck a simple smear of dark crimson red. And the Hell Lord was in Sebastian's hand, still aimed, and he'd fired the bullet that had blazed right through Claude's throat and its gushing arteries.

The blond one's cries of distress sounded to Sebastian as if they came from underwater, muffled and far away as if the air had turned thick like molasses. Sebastian watched, feeling in a state of confusion, where the world moved a little too fast for him to keep up correctly: Alois stumbled up the altar steps, dropping his gun and falling to his knees near the one with glasses, whose glasses had been bent by his fall from the balcony. His hands were still twitching and Alois held one tightly, bawling so hard his little body shook and it was hard to think of him as a gunslinger, for at that moment he seemed just a bereft boy.

_Tempt not a desperate man._

Sebastian's cousin Will was there next to him suddenly, mouth moving, but Sebastian didn't hear a word. Will was checking Claude's pulse. Alois rocked to and fro, the very image of agony. And wasn't there a long-running joke between them all, that Alois and Claude were lovers? Oh, well. That's life.

Nobody was shooting anymore. The tension in the air had soured. The gunfight was over. He'd shot Claude in the face, or the throat—somewhere fatal in that vital vicinity. Blood had probably spattered in the gallery like it pooled on the altar floor.

_Tempt not a desperate man._

In one sudden dizzying rush of lucidity that left his ears ringing again, everything swung back into focus and Sebastian turned back to Ciel and the prayer corner.

Ciel was wearing wonderful Camerick linen tonight, and a waistcoat of slate-blue that brought out the deep hues of his vibrant healthy eye. His hair was tousled and his face drawn tight, and he leaned against the candle stand with his hair falling in his face and his arms limp in his lap, breathing with great labor. He seemed to sense Sebastian's eyes and he lifted his hands slowly, pale lissome fingers shaking, and Sebastian had to gather willpower to wrench his eyes from the awful blooming _red_ on Ciel's left shoulder and neck.

Ciel had dropped his revolver. Sebastian kicked it aside, hearing BLACK as they became panicked with Claude's gory sudden death. Alois screamed and screamed. Sebastian heard him kick something over as they tried to calm him. Sebastian crouched on his haunches and grabbed Ciel's hands, pressing them to his face to let Ciel know he was there. Ciel's eyes glinted behind the locks of his dark hair, so alive and bright still. Oh God, he was going to suffer—

"You _cannot_," Sebastian hissed, grabbing Ciel's face. Ciel uttered a gentle moan at the sudden movement. Sebastian guessed that the bullet was still somewhere inside him, and that had it entered from the curve of his neck and shoulder, the warm place that Sebastian so loved to kiss.

"I cannot what?" Ciel croaked, and it was terribly weak and wavering. He sounded as though he couldn't breathe well, and Sebastian wondered if the bullet had gone through his lungs or his windpipe.

"You cannot _go_," Sebastian mumbled. He could feel himself breaking. He was a grown man, for Christ's sake, he could not break—he could not let the emotion clench like that around his heart—he could not let the tears spring up in his eyes—panic, oh panic— "Ciel, you cannot go, we have a contract to make, we have a feud to end, Ciel, _everyone I've ever loved has died and you cannot, you cannot!_"

It was the most terrible and touching thing, and Sebastian broke under the weight of his emotion like an overwhelmed little boy because Ciel smiled the most soft, angelic smile of reassurance then.

"Kill me," he whispered, very faintly. And that was Ciel Phantomhive, wasn't it? Shaken and scarred by many different internal wars, trauma and nightmares and the world's morbidity—he was just a beautiful dark-eyed boy, giving nothing and taking it all, and why wouldn't he smile so beautifully as he asked for death?

"_Tempt not a desperate man!_" Sebastian cried, feeling the emotion wrench across his face. And _damn_ the obsession, _damn _the tragedy, _damn the entire world and its demons of hatred and spite_. Where was the justice here? He was not a fighter, dammit, he was a romantic, but the world didn't seem to be fond of romantics.

Grell was there suddenly. He grabbed him. Sebastian shook him off. He wrapped his arms around Ciel, carefully, and cradled him close below the marred painting of the Virgin Mary and baby Christ.

"_Sebastian_," Grell hissed, and he didn't have to say anything else. Sebastian understood. They were leaving him. They were done with this. Claude was dead. It was probably better if they left; the blond one might go on a dangerous rampage.

"Go," Sebastian husked.

"Sebastian, bring him with you, for Christ's sake!" Grell sounded hysterical. The sound of Alois's shrieks were echoes from outside the sanctuary now, like the howl of the wind. "Bring him with you," Grell urged, pulling on Sebastian's shoulders. "Please, Jesus Christ, please, Sebastian, they've got Claude's body outside but we can figure this out—"

Grell must have realized it was futile. He fell suddenly still and silent, and Sebastian didn't look at him because it was about time Grell realized that Sebastian was doomed, anyway. His father hated him. His household and gang hated him. There would be no peace, no justice, no relief for him if he left the church with BLACK, even bringing Ciel. He wasn't even supposed to be back in New London, and now he'd killed Claude.

Grell lingered a few more seconds, and then his rapid footsteps echoed as he ran out of the sanctuary.

BLACK left.

There was just the silence in St. Mikael's.

The flicker of candles, reflected in the dark puddle on the altar floor, and the commingling scents of gunpowder, of melting wax, of dust and age and spilled blood.

"Romeo," Ciel cooed, husking a breath against Sebastian's shoulder. He looked dizzy. He had to rest his head on Sebastian. Sebastian didn't mind. Ciel was dying, and for once Sebastian wanted to be there when his love left the world. This might be his last, he decided. What did it feel like when a soul left from your arms like this?

"How are you joking with me even now?" Sebastian gritted out. The emotion was so much, it came in waves: overwhelming and painful, and then nothing, only to wash back through him in crushing currents.

Ciel smiled faintly, eyes hooded. In the candlelight, it was brutally gorgeous. "Because," Ciel whispered. "You're my friend."

Sebastian laughed, although it sounded something like a sob. His eyes stung. He felt like a boy again, so alive with even the most tragic of emotions. "Oh, please tell me I'm more than that," he said, smiling tenderly.

Ciel peered up at him. He looked comfortable against his shoulder, linen stained dark red. Sebastian reached down to brush hair out of his eyes. Ciel smiled a little more. "You are, you are," he murmured. "I promise you that." He paused, as if he'd lost his breath just whispering. "I love you, somehow," he said next, and it was Sebastian's turn to lose his breath.

"You tell me this now!" he cried, hating Ciel for waiting until a moment such as that to reveal such intimacy. He probably saw it as weakness. Sebastian was sure of it. But no, he didn't hate Ciel for it. He hated love. Damn the obsession. Damn it all. Who had once said hate and love were two sides of the same emotion?

"I don't want to leave, Sebastian," Ciel mumbled, frowning. It was stubborn.

Sebastian shook his head. He watched as Ciel reached up, dizzied, pushing hair out of Sebastian's eyes. Sebastian let him. "I don't want you to leave, either," he insisted.

"Not like that." Ciel laughed quietly. "I don't want to leave the church, I mean."

"...What do you mean, _malysh_?" Sebastian's voice had hardly left his lips before he regretted using the Russian word, but nothing changed on Ciel's face. His eyes were dark, and his hand sank back down to his lap, and he took a slow breath, trembling a little against Sebastian's chest. Sebastian held him tighter for it, like a frightened child afraid of being alone. The shadows danced in the sanctuary, and the silence was icy.

"...Somehow, I love it when you use that terrible world. Sebastian, I don't want to leave because it's so peaceful here." Ciel paused, looking up at Sebastian in almost sarcastic awe. "I shot Christ's face," he whispered, in wonderment of himself.

"Yes, you did," Sebastian said, chuckling even as the tears rolled over his lashes.

"But I still feel Christ here." The words were breathy, almost inaudible. Ciel's eyes had fixed on the ceiling of the sanctuary, like he was thinking about something distant and deep. He licked his lips, brow furrowing. He drew another quivering breath. Sebastian could hear the death in it already, the wheeze and the shiver and the slightly wet sound of blood somewhere in Ciel's chest. And what a terribly daunting moment, this instant where Ciel spoke of Christ—he, the morose Machiavellian Earl of opulent tragedy and chaos, of the turbulent business of guns and gangs, of revenge and violence and sin, looked absolutely spiritual suddenly. Surely, staring up at the ceiling, he seemed torn between the dark forgotten world of his soul and the beauty of life bursting around him in the rafters and corners of the church, and Sebastian choked up. He tried not to let Ciel see it, but he felt too cold—too full of a desperate, irreparable ache that was half love and half horror—and certainly this pain was what those who suffered in Hell would experience for eternity, and it was excruciating.

"Sebastian," Ciel murmured, meeting Sebastian's eyes again. It was undeniable; he saw the nascent chill in Sebastian's face and Sebastian clenched his teeth against it, brow knotting. Ciel shrugged with one shoulder, peering up at him comfortably. "I like this," he said. "I like the peace here. It's beautiful. It's so comfortable against your chest and I love you, I love you—"

There were the tears Sebastian didn't realize he'd been waiting to see again. They bubbled up in Ciel's thick lashes and poured down his cheeks. Sebastian thumbed some away, shaking his head.

"Don't cry, Ciel. You won't be able to breathe," he whispered. It didn't matter. Ciel couldn't breathe anyway. His body was jerking with each sharp breath he took as he spoke, urgently.

"We're all doomed, Sebastian," he said, eyes widening suddenly. His hands were cold when they touched Sebastian's face, forcing eye contact. With the tears and the terrible look on his face, he looked mad and Sebastian didn't like it. He looked like an unearthly agent, determined to accomplish this one speech before sputtering out like a flame in the wind. "There is no salvation. Just please let me feel this peace a little longer before my soul perishes—"

Sebastian shook his head, vehemently. He pushed Ciel's hands from his face. "No, not doomed. You're not doomed."

The sound when Ciel's body rattled with a deep cough was unsettling. It deepened Sebastian's despair. The cough sounded congested, but it was not of phlegm. It became a wet choke, something just short of a retch, and it stained Ciel's hands with blood, thick and dark crimson on his palms, on the cuffs of his sleeves. Sebastian tightened his arms around him, eyes widening. It felt like the anguish was choking him to death, crushing him, one fiber at a time, one emotion at a time.

"Sebastian, I'm sorry," Ciel croaked, the perfect image of humiliation and hopelessness. He looked up at Sebastian with such an expression of childish weakness around mismatched eyes of familiar pride that Sebastian uttered a little breath akin to a groan. He was probably embarrassed. He was dying, and he was apologizing, probably ashamed.

"Don't leave me alone, Ciel—" Sebastian gasped.

"You'll come to my funeral?" Ciel whispered, suddenly calm, staring with such composed indignation that Sebastian utterly broke. He sobbed like a child, shaking his head against Ciel's.

"I refuse to see you in a coffin! Death may want you, jealous thing it is, but I _refuse_—"

"God, Sebastian, I was wrong—I'm doomed—" Ciel's words were thick with blood and he sounded not distraught, but in awe of his own mistakes. Sebastian didn't care. He didn't care about revenge, or their families' feud. He didn't care about BLACK, or what had happened two years ago, or contracts or murders or even that wretched Hell Lord.

"_Miserere mei, Deus_," Sebastian whispered, voice quavering on his lips and skin cold with terror of each advancing second as he went on with the Orthodox rites, hoping it would soothe Ciel's twitching and the dark sadness on his face. It was not the last expression Sebastian wanted to see on him. It was not Ciel. The spark of pride and determination was him, but not the sad frown around it.

"You're so sweet, Sebastian."

There was blood at the corner of Ciel's mouth. He looked so adult, so calm even with the tears making his eyes look cold and bright—like a little gentleman, a miniature of a young man so sophisticated and cool. His lashes fluttered, his head rolled on Sebastian's shoulder, and Sebastian felt it when he fell unconscious. He wasn't dead—perhaps not yet—but he couldn't breathe much anymore. He'd been laboring with it for minutes now, and he'd fainted. It was a strange, unsettling sensation to feel a body go limp in his arms, and Sebastian did not like it.

Suddenly the church was too silent. Sebastian could feel Ciel breathing still—barely, a hardly traceable shift on his elbow and the blood all over him—and Sebastian stared at the marred faceless crucifix for a moment, feeling rather empty and numb. The sobbing left him with a single breath; how, he wasn't sure.

His eyes moved to the Theotokos, the Virgin Mary above the flickering candles in the prayer corner. He saw Ciel's gun, off to the side. The Hell Lord was back in its holster; Sebastian didn't even remember putting it there.

_Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy name. _

_Rejoice, O Virgin Theotokos, Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee_.

_Have mercy on me, O God_.

How had this happened?

Rosalie, Charysse, Victoria.

Ciel Phantomhive.

_Obsession_.

Love.

Contracts.

He looked peaceful. Sebastian couldn't look at him anymore. He laid Ciel down gently on the altar floor and walked around the sanctuary, humming the Cherubic Hymn to himself as he remembered being in St. Mikael's years before, as a child, meeting the clergyman Kelvin when he'd first entered as Father.

Lovers' Lane.

Bodies.

Death.

There was nothing left anymore, really.

Fate was cruel, and everyone was doomed.

Sebastian lit a prayer candle, for Ciel's soul. He figured he might as well light one for himself, too. And then, one by one, he picked up the candles and threw them around the church until the tapestries were catching fire and the woodwork was smoking. There was a sense of finality, really, as the flames popped. It was heavy and inchoate on Sebastian's shoulders.

His eyes looked their last. His arms held their last. The sanctuary began to fill with smoke, and the flames began to grow from strategically thrown candles, and Sebastian thought that, even bloody and on the horizon of death, Ciel looked beautiful. Sebastian sat down beside him, unconscious on the altar floor, and pressed a kiss to each of his satiny eyelids. He ran his hands through his hair, and smiled faintly as he touched his lashes with his knuckles. Ciel's mouth was limp and pliant when he kissed it, just a dust of the lips, and he tried to position Ciel in a proper way, a regal way, a way that Ciel would want to be lying. He looked like he was sleeping, serene, the image of simple peace: a bloodstained angel with fingers laced where Sebastian had arranged them.

The smoke stung Sebastian's eyes and the flames leapt closer to the crucifix.

He wasn't being reckless. Sebastian just knew there was no other solution. There was no reason for him to be alive anymore; his reason to live was dying, and so should he.

He and Ciel were very alike, anyway. They both might have thought it such a shame that when Sebastian lay down on the altar floor beside him, a pool of Claude's blood yards away, and shot himself in the head with his Hell Lord, his blood stained the side of Ciel that Claude's gunshot had not. But perhaps, in a dark way, one of them might have found it romantic. Intimate, even. What a pity, then, that the painting of the Virgin Mary, the shattered face of Christ, and the other effigies of deities and angels were the only witnesses to the curtain closing on the tragedy: the death of the gunslinging romantic Rook and the last unconscious breath of the bloodstained Earl.

* * *

_epilogue._

* * *

When the rector arrived with the law enforcement, signing cross after cross upon his chest, his stomach was heavy with dread and his nerves electric with fright. He'd expected bodies. He'd expected bloodshed. But he hadn't expected to run up in the dark and cold of the wee hours of a winter morning after frantic neighbors pounded on his door to find St. Mikael's was on fire.

The rector stood with his neighbors, and other brave (or stupid) civilians, as the flames licked the dark sky. Authorities rushed to the scene, but it mattered not. St. Mikael's was aflame. Parish members cried and wailed at such a sight, tragic and jarring of faith. Other civilians were frozen in unease. The sight of a burning chapel could have been comparable to a pentagon hanging upside down.

They found the remains just after daybreak, when they'd finally put out the blaze.

Religious icons and artifacts were gone, irreparably charred or nonexistent as the last embers popped and sizzled. It was like the aftermath of holy warfare, a glimpse at what hell might be like: items of faith and sanctity, destroyed and defeated by fire.

Some of the most faithful were hoping for miracles, but what was discovered were not bleeding statues or shining paintings that had somehow survived the flames, but a blackened faceless crucifix, scorched woodwork already scarred by bullets, and the burned bodies of two of the most pivotal faces in New London.

Clause Herold was named temporary Earl of Phantomhive. The aristocrat Reginald Williams's son proposed to Elizabeth Middleford and Frances Middleford accepted for her.

Lord Michaelis had a stroke.

Lady Michaelis donned black immediately. Newspaper clippings speaking of her youngest son's death joined the clippings speaking of Quinton Michaelis's admission to the insane asylum in Yekaterinburg in the rosewood box with the angels carved on it, which she kept in her private apartments. The newspaper clippings were placed neatly beside both her sons' first pairs of shoes, a poem Sebastian had written her when he was very small, and a photo of Quinton in Michaelis regalia.

Gloom settled over New London.

Not even the Queen's visit on the day of the interments, coach rattling through on the cobbles as New London civilians gathered in their best fashion, could lift the sense of calamity that had fallen like the funereal shrouds over Michaelis and Phantomhive faces.

The former Earl Ciel Phantomhive and the Honorable Sebastian Michaelis were laid to rest on the same day, on opposite ends of the same cemetery, a fenced-in place of elaborate gothic tombs, draped urns and weeping angels.

"Peace?" the undertaker cackled as he rattled his way through Lovers' Lane, slushy and quite quiet as most of New London gathered in Highgate Cemetery for the joint funeral, which was rather lavish for an event of such morbid circumstances—ah, the graces of nobility.

The undertaker cocked his head back. His ratty hat fell from his head and into a murky puddle.

"There is no peace!" he howled, so tickled he could hardly stand it. "There is no peace for anyone, and I told him! I told him not to misunderstand the value of each and every soul!"

He paused, hoisting the stiff body of an orphan up off the cobblestones of Lovers' Lane and into the back of his cart. He hummed to himself, pushing silver hair out of his eyes. He crouched down, grinning at the orphan in his cart. He brushed hair from the dead child's eyes and sang to her, whether she heard his off-key lilts as they echoed off the walls of Lovers' Lane and sprayed spittle on her limp dirty hands or not:

"_Go hence! Have more talk of these sad things! Some will be pardoned and some will be punished, but never was there a story so tragic as this, the terrible, terrible death of Ciel Phantomhive and the heir of Michaelis!_"

Overhead, rooks scattered from their roost above Lovers' Lane.

* * *

_We learn little from victory, much from defeat_.

Curtain closed.


End file.
